I loathed that towering hurdle.
Abhorrence was a gentle way to describe it.
Mildew was generously coated on its walls.
Light was an unwelcomed stranger to its depths.
But I grew around that Gothic monstrosity,
Creeping and crawling over its peccant walls;
I grew into its gloomy depths,
Breaking through, and bleeding along its stained glass.
I grew over its soaring walls,
With no angel to tend to me.
I grew over its soaring walls,
With plenty of gargoyles to taunt me.
I reached its spire, triumphantly.
But there was no glory in my victory.
I had made it through the spiraling hurdle,
But the journey had left me in solitary.
And now, I must spring like the magic bean plant
From the tales of an enchanting fantasy.
I must go on to reach the sky,
But it shall be in the bleakness of reality.
And I shall be real, and it shall be no magic.
It shall be my determined heart, my learned mind,
And my wise and broken soul.
Maybe it's all a little tragic.
So I gave it my kindest gratitude for no mirth.
I gave it my sincerest apologies for whatever it was worth.
But the painful journey shall be remembered
And recovered from, until the day of my death.