He is to me what kings are to their knight,
Who grants me trials that shape and make me strong.
He is the dawn that banishes the night,
Who gives me truth when all the world feels wrong.

He is a compass when I lose my way,
A steady hand when storms begin to rise.
His words are stars that help me not to stray,
A spark of fire beneath the cloudy skies.

He is to me the book the wise revere,
Each page a path to knowledge deep and wide.
He speaks, and thoughts long buried reappear,
A tide of wonder I no more can hide.

In every lesson, he bestows me grace—
A guide, a torch, the sun upon my face.

The mountain’s summit captures every eye,
Its steadfast might withstands the fiercest storm.
Through wind and snow its gentle soul shall lie,
It waits for summer’s joy so bright and warm.

Adventure stirs the soul; the summit calls!
What fame and fortune lie for those who dare!
While facing cold and narrow, deadly falls,
Of conquered peaks we are so well aware.

For every arduous climb there is return,
A silent rest to golden dreams of youth.
A quiet truth embraced by those who yearn,
That transience is nature’s only truth.

No matter where they rest and where they roam,
The foothills are what mountaineers call home.

𝐀 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧;
𝐀𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞,
𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦.
𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭...
𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 ?
𝐒𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐬 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐨;
𝐀𝐬 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬, 𝐬𝐨 𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐣𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬.
𝐌𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐲, 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐲, 𝐨𝐡 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐲...
𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐮𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐭;
𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐝𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐲𝐞𝐭,
𝐀𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞!
𝐇𝐚𝐬 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡?
𝐎𝐫, 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈 𝐛𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 ?!?
𝐓𝐡𝐲 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞.

- 𝗔. 𝗥𝗼𝘀𝗲

His hands encompass: pulling me from dirt
my terracotta wetness coats his palms
infusing nails and joints with ochre clay.
A ball of damp adobe, thunk, I’m thrown,
the wheel begins its spin, his fingers grasp
irregular alluvium, I'm smoothed
as digits delve into my focal point
their pressure firmly moulding, shaping me
into a vase, a ***, a water jug
to be what his imagination holds.

(An exercise to write a sonnet in iambic pentameter)

With heavy heart, I offer my remorse,
for I'm too tired to dance this weary eve.
The echoes of my workday's tireless chores
linger, leaving naught but fatigue's relief.

Oh, believe me, I hate to disappoint,
for the music tempts me to sway and dance.
But the hours I've toiled, each task and each point,
have drained me to a tired nudnik, perchance.

My spirit, once bright, now longs for respite,
to find solace in rest and heal my self.
Though my love for dance burns hot like cordite,
exhaustion demands I stay on the shelf.

Forgive me, my friend, tonight I must rest,
but once refreshed, we’ll fete and dance with zest.

"So how much will the rental be?", he hollers.
"A thrifty fee of fifty three green dollars."

The world's small eyes bare down like heavy gold,
On whomsoever seeks their glazed dim gaze.

I itch my neck, my chest. The skin is raw -
a caustic burn, not flame but chemical.
I feel his gaze press on my breast, his jaw
is tight, he finds this guilt desirable.

I want to scratch a pattern on his back
in runes. A pictogram, occult, obscene.
An animal ensnared, its leg entrapped,
through blood-slicked fur and bone, will gnaw it clean.

He says: “You are no songbird in a cage.
And I’m a man, respectable, with wife
at home. And yet, your racing pulse - you rage
a storm in me, a spirit rose to life”.

This spirit, rose to life when first we met,
won’t die without a sacrifice of sweat.