Behold                                    Mt.
    Creativity: a
     pile of corpses 
    stacked in a fissure
      rotting flesh succumbs
      to desperate less-rotten flesh
      wriggling and squirming above
          straining for a glimpse of the sun, of glory
Every failure                                                          ­                       a dream 
a crumpled effort                                                                      long since
drained of meaning                                                          dulled by time
abandoned to silent decay                                  skeletons still pristine
Undisturbed but restless spectres     unable to speak their treasured
truths to minds beyond their own, trapped with an unspent wealth

     That mountain of death
     roots endlessly deep
      of words never heard
      memories never seen
        thrusts forth, at the summit, a
       podium for the knighted
     
      Enraptured, we embrace this beauty
                                            as if pure and whole                                      
       conveniently forgetting the
    foundation of its
     brilliance:
    death

         and now this piece will take its rightful place at the base