The Abyss at the Top of the Hill

It had won so many things
Victories seemed to cluster together
Becoming multiplicative and overbearing

The prospect of losing seemed even dimmer
A door was closing
Pinching off a shaft of light
But the room remained
Just dark and lacking in pluses and minuses

Sitting wasn’t an option
Nor standing
Nor hearing or experiencing
Seeing was a long shot
Best to let it be

It would have killed for a nice breeze
Settled even for the creak of that door
The light had grabbed mahogany’s arm
Rescuing it at the last moment

Now only the thing was left
Not a champion
Because lips couldn’t utter the obvious

Words couldn’t bestow titles anymore
They floated, air-like
About to disappear at least for the foreseeable future

Champion

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