A forlorn stare, a hand full of butter

Unsure on whether there’s a top, he begins climbing

The one thing left of him is revenge

Although his poker face is impressive he knows he’s not up to grade

He never stays long, for he’s but a tourist

He continues the journey, heart pounding in his ribs

 

He remembers the children, their endless ribs

His confusion consuming all but the melting butter

His thoughts are scattered, even in his own mind he’s just a tourist

But no matter, for he keeps climbing

Despite the challenge being of the highest grade

He endures, thinking only of revenge

 

For what deed is he seeking revenge?

He knows not in his mind, but in his rib

He finds a small alcove upon reaching the latest grade

There’s nothing on his mind but Her

Tired and with chafed hands he ceases his climbing

Alone and in an unfamiliar place he once again becomes a tourist

 

He hates this, the uncertainty that seeps through every aspect of being a tourist

He stops for a moment, he ponders his revenge

He wonders why it subsides along with his climbing

He realizes that his heart is no longer trying to burst out of its cage of rib

Frightened by this, he clutches his chest with a hand soaked in lukewarm butter

If for nothing else but to distract himself, he resumes the climb up, and up the grade

 

With each endless step he traverses the grade

Scared of the uncertain fate that comes of being a tourist

He slides up the terrain with clammy appendages of melted butter

Every step brings him a small bit closer to his revenge

But his desire wavers within the small lump between his ribs,

And for the first time he questions his climbing

 

His purpose forgotten he stops climbing

But as he slides down the uneven grade

He notices that not moving at all equals moving backwards and

Something odd swells up in his rib

Another unfamiliar feeling, another moment as a tourist

But as he slides downward, his revenge all but forgotten, His head collapses into hands and in the

space between fingers flows a stream of tears and viscous butter

 

The Children create stories about him, about the climbing tourist

About his revenge and the grade he climbed

About the feeling in his ribs, and the hands inexplicably cloaked in butter