They had nothing in common save mutual hate
and respect for each other's Alpinist skills.
Today they press forward as high winds abate
Carefully climbing the mountain that kills.
Jean-Paul is in front when he stumbles and slips,
slithering backwards towards the steep ledge.
A howl of despair escapes his chapped lips,
now dangling in mid-air beneath the sharp edge.
Cautiously Michel inspects the belay.
Despite all the odds it remains fast in place.
He's wickedly thinking "this might be the day
I cast my last glance on Jean-Paul's gloomy face."
He scrambles and slides to the sheer overhang,
peers at his partner rotating below.
How simple to finish him off with a bang,
Cut through the rope and let Jean-Paul go.
That morning Michel got a text from Yvette,
she's leaving John-Paul and siding with him.
All hell will break loose when he knows, you can bet.
Finish him now, for that prospect is grim.
But Michel was bound by the mountaineers' code,
insistent, demanding, he had to obey.
He couldn't dispose of his burdensome load
so ruthlessly, callously, there was no way.
Reluctantly Michel grabbed hold of of the rope,
dug in his crampons and started to heave.
As Jean-Paul drew level he started to hope,
this dire situation was his to retrieve.
Now scrambling on icy rocks, over the edge,
Jean-Paul seized his chance and grabbed Michel's shin.
He yanked and they both slithered back to the ledge,
tumbling over, suspended with spin.
That morning Yvette had messaged her ex,
said she was starting afresh with his "friend."
He couldn't face life without her sweet sex
For both mountaineers this would signal the end.
No way could he lose her and only do zip.
He had to take action to seal Michel's fate.
He calmly, deliberately, opened the clip
which secured his large frame to the rope's metal plate.
As he plummeted downwards to meet certain death,
smashed into fragments on rocks far below,
Jean-Paul muttered darkly under his breath
"My death will be instant, yours painfully slow."
Michel cursed Jean-Paul when he felt the rope slack.
He knew he would hang there and starve, die of thirst.
"That cochon, that coward, stabbed me in the back.
I wish I had killed him, my honour came first!"
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| Writing Prompt |
Write a poem in any form or style with Betrayal as the central theme. |
Author Notes
Never trust a Frenchman. (Only joking, Pierre).
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