PANIC!

... by Me

Hanging onto the edge
Of the cliff for dear life,
But he keeps stomping
On my fingers. Crushing
The fragile bones and
Flesh with big, black boots.

Not sure how much strength
There is left now. My weakened
Digits are relentlessly prised away
From the clump of sandy grass
which is the only anchor remaining.

Far below, the waves rage
Against rocks sharpened to
A point like a Neanderthal's
Flint weapon by centuries
Of hammering erosion.

I can't see his face, just
The feet. Stamping and crushing.
The mocking laughter rings
In my ears. Not even the roar
Of the sea can
Drown that out.