When I begin to fret and fume,
my peace comes up, just rises up.

The woe is not mine, I'm fine.

Contain myself, I wish for money,
in abundance, and settle for a smile
on my face that I did not put there,

saying, just now, enough,

just enough, to know, too much
is superfluity, intentionally let spill.

this world holds no secrets like you
the ocean can’t tell it
nor the shells can spell it
nor the wind can blow it
nor will I tell it too

this world holds no secrets like you
the dreamers don’t show it
the poets don’t know it
the sleepers can’t find it
nor will I tell it too

this world holds no secrets like you
the night won’t unveil it
the moon won’t howl it
the stars can’t fault it
nor will I tell it too

You are like a mountain, not a
sublime snow-capped mountain in
Colorado, or like the Cerro Torre in
Argentina and Chili.
Not like
the Ama Dablam in Nepal.
But you seem like a
mountain nonetheless.
A mountain that obscures
the beauty of the
majestic sunrise,
and the grandeur of life.
A mountain that
smothers love and
everything glorious.
Maybe you aren't
a mountain at all.
Perhaps you're an
ant hill, dragging
dead souls into
your busy hole.
I climbed you, and
was so enamored with
your beauty, I missed
your charade and
masquerade.