John Michael Poling

The Man, the Myth, and the Madness

I sat on the edge of a sheer cliff, where no one’s sight penetrated the darkness of that pit met its ground. Wound tighter than and coiled steel spring, I gripped the dark earth with all my might, and leaned over the edge, undeterred from my desire to know that final destination, because it was my fault. I had always been my fault, or at least that was what I had been told. Over, and over a voice taunted me with my fate. I was fated to fail.