You, the mountain. But when I poked holes in you, you spilled out as a fountain. And the reds all bled into a pool of liver green that stank
so high and lost the sheen. I couldn't move myself, bathed in the bath. I couldn't find my footpath. My skin so wrinkled. The light dimmed. I lost my twinkle. And my wings,
waterlogged. So, bogged down the colors caked like make-up on a clown. I washed them off in the sherry. And also, ***** just to vary. I couldn't move
the hands of time back to the day I climbed the mountain with the dizzying view and threw myself off. I fell. But in the falling I flew. And in the fluttering my wings lifted me beyond mountains.