I was walking down the dusty road, dragging weight, kicking stones and dusts. Then they caught my right foot, I stumbled to the dirty ground, those dusts I once beneath my feet wandered around my face. I pushed myself up against the gravity pull, desperate grunts escaped my bleeding lips. The nasty taste of metal overwhelmed the buds on my tongue. The stinging steps were unbearable. I asked myself if I was going to fall again. That was the last before I was on the ground; crumbling and shattering into pieces, rotting under the peeks of moonlight.
What goes up, comes down.
(Let's put the blame on gravitation.)