Mountains cloaked in misty fog,
Far too invested in holding up the sky,
To crumble.

Light burns the frigid frost,
As the pale moon begins to fade.
Lonely is the moss that witnesses,
These vaulted measures of pain
Through suffering.

How many pebbles,
Make a mountain strong?
Or do the people ever realize,
Their propensity?

Failure is a game,
Each person will play
And despair is the summer grass
In which we lay.

For there is no retracting,
The violent light,
As hope burns screaming
Through a lonely night.