by Heber C. Oak

Around the bend of Golden Glyph
Stands an awkward looking cliff
Connected to mountain high and wide,
Rising in reverse from which you’d climb.
The peak is flat; the bottom, point—
A balancing act of shifty, stacked coins.
The ground atop should be below;
The granite underneath un-whited with snow.
A mile high (or even more),
Instead, the tip supports the floor.
The law of gravity only here fails
As shale won’t slide to turn the scales.
But then again—who knows—it could;

The bluff above may slip, flip, and should.