#moutain
peak
stone,
breath slows,
clouds pause,
wind grows spare,
a chamois cuts the slope,
spruce needles thin the sky,
stones warm from yesterday’s sun,
marmots whistle once, then vanish into dirt,
pine resin thick in the air, the river talking below,
bells from grazing sheep, boots soaked through with dew,
the valley spreads its grasses wide and still, holding every sound
Jan 17
Jan 17, 2026 at 6:36 AM UTC
One.
Dead.
It stands.
Illustrated
For nothing.
Too nothing.
In the isle.
Of Loath.
And weeping to the ecstasy.
That shown once before.
The crystal eyed.
Slept none.
Cabin soft.
Escape.
Playing mindful.
Collage of inner chaos.
Volume languid.
Unreal.
Illusion
It thinks to an eroding tone.
And still present when it leaves.
Garrett Johnson.
Jul 2, 2020
Jul 2, 2020 at 6:40 PM UTC
Up up up
Up the numbers go
Raising high my spirits
Drowning out my woe
Higher higher higher
Reaching to a peak
Then crashing down to none again
And leaving me to weep
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 3:40 PM UTC
In your company
we hop to the top,
our held hands hold
the air we draw on
near the summit;
running gravity out of town,
what goes up
not coming down.
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 11:39 PM UTC