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Robert Ronnow Nov 2017
What luxury to get mad
about last night's basketball loss
and watch the full moon descending
at the speed the earth turns.

Things could get worse
personally and for the community.
Bombings, killings, anomie
boiling frogs and witches cursing.

The changing climate,
typhoons in the Philippines,
volcanoes and tsunamis, WWII which I missed,
Thanksgiving nor'easter, Easter twister.

What abundance to fast or feast,
your choice, stay inside by the stove
or go outside, climb the mountainside.
Live in a city or small town.

So I raged at the coaches
for their lazy zone defense
like an alien in the bleachers
unable to affect the outcome.

When my sons came home
I yelled at them too. What opulence
to be angry about nothing of consequence
neither stopped by the cops nor slipped on the ice.
Elaina Dec 2013
I find myself standing alone in the barren valley. The wind is cold, it burns my nose. I feel it moving my hair. Shivers run though me. The smell it brings tells me that snow is not far off.

Looking in the distance, clouds cover the mountain. It's where I must go. A new home lies beyond the tall peaks. It's calling me. Why did it send it's message now?

It's hard to explain this pull it has over me. I must get there. It's where I belong. Where I am supposed to be. Moving forward I keep my focus. Determined to survive.

It's warmer now. I feel the heat of the sun. The brightness of the day has replaced the gray of the dawn. Others are making themselves known.

I see the tall grass move against the wind. Rabbit moves leaving a trail of dust. The shadow of a hawk passes to the left as it chases after it's intended meal.

Soon I must eat. Looking around I see the dew covered tips of tender new shoots. Putting my head down I breathe in the scent of the earth, knowing that she will always provide.

Walking again I pleasure in the warmth of the sun.

Looking up, the peaks are throwing their shadow over me. I begin the climb. Steady I go, feeling more and more sure of my path. The path that guides me home, and the path that guides my soul.

The higher I climb, the colder it gets. Patches of white snow appear. The clouds of my breath fade into the space in front of me. Onward I push, my goal is true, to reach the other side.

The more I struggle, the more I want this, need this. Placing one foot in front of another I make my way.

To the right, I see not far off, a overhang. A place of shelter for the night. The daylight is gone and rest is calling. When the sun rises next, my journey will take me deeper into the mountain, nearer to my home.

Late into the night, stars appear. Brilliant lights such as I have never seen. The air feels new, so cold and crisp. It tells me that new beginnings are here. I sleep knowing all is well.

The morning sun brings relief from the cold. As I travel onward, it's warmth on the snow provides water to quench my thirst.

The trees are gone now. The rugged mountainside holds little in it's rocky soil. Life is scarce. This only serves to increase my drive to get home. Soon, very soon, I will be there.

The sun that brought warmth earlier has crossed over the peaks. Cold is settling in, but I can see the end of the rise. In a very short time I will be in sight of my new home.

My soul is singing. Far off in the distance, I look down on a flock of birds winging effortlessly through the air. Light from the late afternoon sun is dancing off the winding river, and a heard of Buffalo graze freely among the grasses.

At last, I step down from the mountain. The overwhelming drive that guided me, has lead me home. Everywhere I look, I see what brought me here. Tears form. I am more than blessed. I am... complete.
The original running title was 'Come back for more, or is this the end?: January 15, 13, 8, 5e, 1. December 31x2, 29, 14, 9, 8'.
Ben Ditmars Jul 2014
lightning never
sees its fire burning
the trees

absent and forlorn
as love can be.

I can feel your
thunder on the

we will tame
the ashes, fan the flames,
and the pray the sky
returns to calm
forgetful sleep.

© Ben Ditmars 2014
Inspired by Ed Sheeran
Analise Quinn Jul 2016
My Country Tis of Thee,
Sweet land of liberty-
Or so we sing.

Land where my fathers died-
But my forefathers died in a battle
Trying to keep their slaves;
My fathers killed your fathers
For trying to run away;
My fathers **** your fathers
Cause it's late at  night, and
He's reaching for his gun-no, wait,
His ID?

Land of the pilgrim's pride-
But so often we leave out of history
How if it weren't for a Native American,
The pilgrims would've died.

From every mountainside-
Like Stone Mountain in Georgia,
Where Rebel Generals are memorialized,
Where the **** was revived-
God, help me, I can't hear freedom's ring;
I can only hear white-washed history.

From every mountainside-
But these days, the mountain is in my chest,
And liberty's ring sounds a lot different,
And a lot of folks don't like it.

Let freedom ring-
And I want to fight for freedom for all-
I want to help-

Let freedom ring!-
But peaceful protests turn into
Bloodbaths as those who have sworn
To serve and protect are sniped down.

Let freedom ring!-
I try to educate myself
On the side of history not taught-
I've always felt that Nat Turner was the bad guy,
But these days I'm questioning it.
I read "The Meaning of Fourth of July for the *****"
by Frederick Douglass
And I read "Bury Me in a Free Land"
by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
and I read "Sympathy"
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
and I read "Letters from Birmingham Jail",
"The Mountaintop Speech", and
"I Have a Dream"  
by Dr. King.

When I was younger,
I'd research Dr. King & his colleagues
For fun.
I'd  wonder, "If I lived in the Civil Rights era,
What would I have done?"

But when I turned seventeen,
I realized, "I live in a Civil Rights era;
What am I going to do?
wandabitch Oct 2012
In the night, those shadows come alive. So little do i know about this heavy doubt.
Cold wind biting the heart. Trying to figure out where I've been.
Dark winter pulls me closer, now theres a place i'm thinking into the air.
A voice calling, "Who knows but that which seems omitted today, waits for tomorrow?"

Nothing is as it seams, just as beauty leans from the earth in a sunset--a harp for the soul to sing.
But You are life and you are the veil.
Beauty is eternity gazing at her self
But you are eternity and you are the mirror.
And if you want to know truth retire of solving riddles.

We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way,
begin no day where we have ended another day;
and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us.
Even while the earth sleeps we travel,
back into dreams.

Ay, my bow rests on my chest.
There is the flame spirit among a starry mountainside.
Oh it was but yesterday we met in a dream. You watched as I built a ship towards your shore.

My spirit goes wandering upon the wind, off to the desert sands, deep beneath the ocean's sound.
I am the gypsey and the fortuneteller, liken an honest thief. No I'm the myth builder and dream master.

who laughs with me when I destroy,
the sand castles of my innocence. The
sun warming my back just as the wicked, and drawing my image locked in a shadow.

Here the soul a battlefield, where
reason and passion become one.
they are the sails of my seafaring soul.

There I found the naked body of my dreams, in silent sleep my spriit walked the path.
I am the star-gazer who feels the power of endlessness, Aware of timelessness and
neverending space. The love in me still
present amidst the scattered fires that
burn in black ink.

Just as the caveman draws his fears on lost walls, speaking of misfortune and
treasures gallore.  A fantom ghost in Hade's Fate.
Now my ship wanders forever on a pearlous course but never sinking.
Eriko Mar 2016
temples spilling sunlight
empress standing mountainside
drinking in the startling thunderstorms
MRR Dec 2012
The cold, crisp, clear air filled my
Lungs. The steady cadence of my feet
Were the only sound on the cold, sparkling
Pavement. I looked up and beheld the
Twinkling of a thousand distant
Galaxies and then looked to my feet
Where I beheld an infinite expanse of
Very near worlds which encompassed the
Sparkling dew which had collected on the
Grass at my feet. I returned to my impossibly large
Room, where the bed was still tossed and the air
Was still thick and hot with the drawing of
Fingers across skin and air being exchanged
Between nostrils and open, gasping mouths. The
Ghost of the exchange still lies, waiting for me
In the melancholy comfort of my bed. The petals
Of a hundred flowers have spread open at the
Soft touch of my fingers; many trees have
Shed their leaves in the gaze of my infinite eyes. Yet,
Not one has been able to lure me down from the
Mountainside which I inhabit, distant from all of
Those who so longingly call to me. Instead, they are
Now tortured by the sound of my song that I sing
To the beautiful moon who lulls me farther up the
Mountain with the passing of every night.
Julia Hicks Nov 2018
i bathe in serene
sleepy mountainside ledges
kissed by lips of fall
Morgan Mercury Aug 2013
You told me you wanted to die
on the mountainside on the 28th of July.
The same day your mother died.
Chased by your sins shouting melodies that are carved on skin.
The kingdom has fallen and you were loved in the best ways possible by the people you wanted, but now the river overflows all the dreams you once held close to you dearly.
And now here you stand reading the letter that she wrote.

"Keep alive and live past my grave. Grow flowers in the darkest places and bring light into your lungs and breathe the air that smells so sweet. Believe there is a place beyond the hollow ground and believe we'll meet up there one day again, but please do not make that day anytime soon. Climb the trees that the past has planted here and swim to the other edge, always be on the other side. Don't worry if you trip over your own feet. Don't fiddle with the cuts you marked but kiss them each day until they're there no more. Follow the path that leads to the river and watch how it flows gracefully over sharp rocks to make them smooth enough to hold. Early in the morning awake with joy because the sun shines for you and the birds sing for only you to hear. Do this for me, my lion heart."

And you kept that letter in your pocket every day and held the crisp paper in your hands pretending it was hers.
niamh Jun 2015
Shadows sliding down,
Enshrouding the mountainside,
Heralding day's end
vircapio gale Jul 2012
she is my nihilistic god;

i am a stag leap.
the fainter wind-caress
felt deep in trunks and boulder bed.
i am delight for loosened thorns
that piercing underfoot will spur to run
my naked body's open-air embrace
atop the callus of my seasoned fun,
skirring flora shadow-dancing bright
descending mountainside of noon
in blurrs refracting sightful bones.
i am the sense of
transtemporal glacial moans,

the heartbeat of the soil breath
to puff from feasted log a mycophile's awe
or want for all placental webs in view
for naming earth a seeping sorrows tithe:
my consciousness of things alive.

the stinging lungs atop the path
are emblems of a winging truth
to overcome her nearing death.
i am the lingham of creations' race.
i am the sensate reeling blow by empty blow.
the gravity of light and dark;
gray theopolis of fists and falls.
envelopment of massive meanings filled
in nether-branchings' net
and mediatrix scorn: the wider world absorbs my self as ~ all~
~. .all. . ~
prating some nepenthean law
to sour our poetic hate
and deeply bury seismic seeds she wants to sow, like
ancient clues of metagender fact:
hermaphroditic **** to 'normal' eyes.
icecaps to resize and singing moralize;
a dolphin midwife toning yoni love
for labor certain nuns call "gift"
as crown of pleasure heights
on par with mysteries;
regrowing infant fingertips,
to pi recited over days,
to vaster mindscapes drawn in ways
'beyond the genius of the sea'

why wait for ease of shame?
thin veils of culture lift
and family bonds anew to tow
the peace from out irratic weight of nation rifts;
instantiations burst beyond the tunnel course~
rhythmic doomsday yearnings line the halls of humantime:
prophetic visions of a sea to come,
Utnapishtim keeps himself alive
to garden with his wife a thriving mortal line.
Quetzalcohuatl finds himself *****
to bloodlet savior sexuality,
his heart a morning star, a Mayan Venus shine.

i see the standing trees
entwine slow-love to sky
so i can swing and heave
my universe above the words,
to carry thorns as well as petals, doves.
the vision ends. the new begins
to filter dyad lies through
corporeal lens.
embodied ivy climbs the tree of death
to rewind love and deepen love,
to bound the loss with goddess wisdom ends and other ends
of ouroboros shedding clear
of limits insight thrives to near.
sunglance peeking is the hovering of me,
steady comfort crosses floating lotus feet.
the softest rock has melded under thee
to join a forest pausing here.
a berry soaks itself of all i am
while nutty chipmunks chirp in whirls;
the clouds are girls you've been,
Nephelae to tease in quenching gowns
the verdant book of men we've known, who leaf
the air to taste another form of fairness lent.
silver is the sun in times of stillness overached.
sifted tensions drift to lie awake, but
drowning in a stream of glowing calm,
i am the woody balm.
the scent of bark unnestled dry
and leaves remembrance when
the breathing stops, the final
fleshing in of nowhere, never then.
you are transcendent of transcending
pure. end, endure and lucid ending live again
in empty worship ringing plenum om.
Matty D Feb 2013
Welcome to the land of golden trout

Where black bears roam and hawks still shout

In the eastern Sierras, hills of the west

Tales of the Adventurers and their first test.

Forming an alliance in Santa Cruz

They left together, unwilling to lose.

Packing up and heading down the trail

They knew as a team they would never fail.

Without a moment’s hesitation nor shred of doubt

The crew took their Tools of Tenacity out

And in less than three months flat

The Adventurers finished, exclaiming “that’s that!”

But who composes this mysterious crew?

Wait just one moment, I promise I’ll tell you.

First, there’s Nico the Noble, the leader so fearless

Who also frightens many when he’s not beardless;

Followed by Ben the Benevolent with his hearty laugh

And never without his Capitals hat;

Kahn the Courageous has his wild antics

Telling stories with Buckeye semantics;

Jamie the Just and her vegan ways

Had to eat lentils for most of her days;

See Jen the Jubilant with camera-in-hand

Shaving logs for as long as she can;

The team’s newest member, Maggie the Merciful,

Has now experienced the wilderness in full;

Tim the Wise lacks alliteration, unlike the others

But has chased many cows, some scraping their udders;

And at last there’s me, the Notable Narrator,

So our crew’s legacy can live forever.

In our quest the crew has changed slightly.

Those unable to handle the tasks lightly

Had left- like Mary, Bobby, and Stary the Skeptical

All well-admired, and mostly respectable.

Now let’s shift our story to the work completed

In the struggling meadow, its health near-depleted.

Using fallen trees that have long-since passed

We found a clearing with their numbers quite vast.

Cutting the deceased into sixteen-foot longs

And lugging them over thickets and bogs

Our team stacked them perpendicular

To the stream, or creek, in particular

And in a magician’s “ta-da!” moment

Water rose up to our new component,

Flowing over the freshly-made dam

Then briefly meeting with dirt and sand

At the bottom. Multiplied by thirty

And that was work: rigorous and *****.

But why were the Adventurers sent there,

To build check-dams and do repairs?

It was, in part, human consumption

That led to the meadow’s near-destruction:

America’s insatiable need for beef

Will not, for a long time, see any relief,

So Industry has pushed forward, sending cows to the fields

Grazing and growing to become our future meals.

But little did Industry know how devastating

Hundreds of cattle leave an ecosystem suffocating.

Trampling grass and dispersing banks underhoof

The bovine are easily guilty, there’s so much proof.

Stupid, noxious, and obnoxious creatures

Recognized by these, easily their best features.

Incessantly screaming day and night

They are more like demons by every right.

Yet the Forest Service lets ranchers send

Hundreds of cattle, seemingly without end.

And while the Golden Trout crew fixed things,

It’s not enough to ease the strain the cows will bring.

So what can we do, if anything at all

If we go veggie will Industry stall?

Can the end of beef save the earth

Is society only worried when we gain in girth?

That’s not for me to say right now

It’s up to you to answer the “how?”

But I digress, I must end the story

Of the Adventurers and their summer glories.

In the end they saved the meadow, saved the day

Held the bovine rampage at bay,

Raised water levels, erosion erased,

Then was the time to leave that place.

So the Adventurers hopped in their van,

Eight warriors mean, lean, and tan,

And took off down the mountainside

To Santa Cruz and the oceanside.

Each followed one’s own path

But only after taking many baths.

The Golden Trout legacy will live forever,

Only made possible by the best crew ever.
(c) MDC
Sarah Zahidi Mar 2017
By the mountainside,

Hidden from the maps,

In a quiet and solitary life,

Lies a home that I longed for,

I stand on the road,

Barefoot; my feet burning,

The heat couldn’t compare to the warmth of my heart,

Telephone strings drew lines in the blue sky,

Connecting the past and the future,

I am, between the present,

In awe,

In a distance,

Said mountains hugged by the clouds from the east,

Moving lazily along with life,

Bright yellow light caught my eyes,

Rows of sunflowers blooming in the summer,

Beaming with happiness,

Traffic lights winked it’s colours,

Twinkled like the stars in daylight,

My home.
First attempt without thinking about grammar mistakes and the likes. Just saw this nostalgic artwork *v* I want to live in the countryside.. //it's not even summer// English is not my first language btww
MaryJane Doe May 2015
I lost myself
On a mountainside
Along a trail of flowers
I'd left behind

You'd never
Come to find

Forget me
Hadn't crossed your mind

Alone along the trail
  I left pieces
of my pride

& I lost myself
On that mountainside
In the forget me nots
You hadn't come to find
I still haven't seen seven falls
M Eastman Nov 2014
Some think this world a vale of tears, or worry and of sighs;
That Life's a great big lottery, in which few win a prize.
I read some hopeless verses once that don't deserve to last,
They told how the mill can never grind with water that is past.

I'd like to change that fallacy which has caused so many a tear,
And by transposing make it bear a message of good cheer
And point the way of winds of hope, like pennant on a mast,
For I know that the mill can grind again with water that is past.

A mountain stream comes trickling in the sunlight down the hill,
And gathers volume until it has strength to run the mill;
It happily continues then, upon its useful way,
Turns other mills still further down, until it joins the bay.

Its temporary mission o'er, it sweeps out to the sea
With other useful waters bearing it company;
And there all peacefully they rest, beneath the shining sun,
Who seems to think their mission is scarcely yet begun.

With gentle force He lifts them up in vapors to the sky,
And gathers them in fleecy clouds in His domain so high,
Where kindly winds then waft them back to that mountain home,
From which a few short hours before we saw them start to roam.

The cooling night then causes them to fall in gentle showers,
A blessing to that mountainside, to grass and trees and flowers;
And in the dawn of early morn we find them back once more
In that same little mountainside, but stronger than before.

They gather volume as they come a-tumbling down the hill,
And then with added vigor again they turn the mill;
And then in play they rush away, through meadowland and town,
And every mill again is turned as they go dancing down.

The brightest day is no more useful than the darkest night,--
Our troubles soon would disappear if we'd view them aright.
Good fortune may be holding back her best things to the last,
For I know that the mill can grind again with water that is past.

And that same little mountain stream
Has always been to me
But one of Nature's many proofs
Of Immortality.
Reposted from "Indian Sign Language" by William Tomkins, 1929. One of my favorite poems.
Alan S Bailey Mar 2015
Every weekend at summer camp the
Memories of the midnight walks we made,
The rushing of the silvery creeks
As well as the daily art and games,
Entertainment as well as molding clay,
The mountainside at night gave good
Presence, the moon offering her halo,
With the memory of endless essence so,
During this time of adventurous fun,
A story telling we campers would all go.

Her raspy voice, I can remember well,
Those cute sparkly playful brown eyes,
We walked side by side, she told me that
The truth was being denied, she was a
Girl in disguise, how I dream of her
In Garnet, Alexandrite. That feeling of total trust,
Now I will probably never be close to
Anyone I love again, already grown old,
To old to ever dream, but what a dream,
A lovely bliss to know that she was my friend.

One day, when the time is right, we'll find it,
This feeling again, of wild spirited joy, campfires,
Of following the forest path, now innocence lost,
A time that is long-gone and past, and if it
Never happens again, the darkness of night
With quiet whispering, story time moon light,
I will never forget her, never will I forget that
Beautiful freckled face, those beady eyes,

*No, never forget you, not for all time.
Sarah Spang Jul 2015
There is a trail in Pennsylvania that is barely tamed
That winds on down the mountainside and fractures into veins.
It lashes through the trees and wood, like man-made ligh-ten-ning
And offers streams of water tasting pleasantly of spring.
This way is framed with micro-caves and fissures in the stone
Where sweetest water rivulets feed moss that's overgrown
Haphazard wooden walkways dot the snake-like trodden path
Their clumsy steps all akimbo; they bridge the wild gaps.

And even further down the trail, dodging brown tree roots
That point like gnarled fingertips and target untied boots
Below, like uncut diamonds lodged into the mountainside
Gushing waterfalls sing aloud, in ranges far and wide.
Their surging torrents babble in a distinguished harmonies
The wordless wind responds by rustling through the countless trees.

There, at last around the bend, before the lumbered river
A bench there sits within the shade where coolness draws a shiver
The wood is at the mercy of the lichen and the rain
That rush to bring that broken boards back to the earth again.

And there, amidst the other foolish carvings in the wood
Scrawled with hopeful youthful hands that did the best they could
The chips and angles buried in reveal what once was true
This is the final place where I will always love you , too.
Visit my Blog for Notes and Extras:
Where the earth and sky become one  ..Along the banded fusion of physical constraint
Indigo blues transformed into burnt orange
The tail of the galaxy commands this mountain-
sky , celestial offerings fall over Alabama-
in the shaded oeuvre of "The Apportioner " on this night ..
Meandering streams etch Cherokee hillsides ,
early evening fires conceal the nearby forested seas
The Crescent Moons luminosity glistens her summits northbound , released-
into the frigid voids of angered scope
Mans vista looms cold , blind and silent , nocturnal fauna return
to their Appalachian precipice to guard these ancient
storytellers ..
Copyright April 3 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved

The Apportioner or Great Spirit ( Unetlanvhi ) in Cherokee Mythology
Grace L Feb 2011
the numerical elements
lacking order
like chaos
in a sea of

so vivid and uniform
the parade of bishops look like
a stream of hot lava
pouring their way down
the mountainside to the pope
or perhaps

a bird
delivering its message on
wings so sharp, jagged
cutting through the blue sky

its message
fundamental to the core
of the earth, of the heavens
without it,
Dylan McFadden Jul 2018
My eye is never satisfied;
My ear is never filled...
By the beauty of a mountainside,
Or songs that give me chills

Every sight – a hollow view,
I look for more and more
Every sound – an empty cue,
Nothing to answer for
My eye is never satisfied;
My ear is never filled...
Ten thousand times I must have cried,
Then smiled – lied – with skill

Everything I see today
Will be, tomorrow, gone
Every sound will fade away –
A shrill inside a yawn
My eye is never satisfied;
My ear is never filled...
Does Meaning ever coincide
With life, and hope, and thrill?

I dream this dream, within a dream –
No substance, light, or power
I sing this song, without a sound –
My voice, the wind, devours
My eye is never satisfied;
My ear is never filled...
I might as well be groping blind,
Deafened – senses killed

I long to see that final sight
And hear that final word,
To show me Something in this night,
And assure me that I’ve Heard

Maybe, I never, seeing, See
And never, hearing, Hear
Because the problem is IN ME:
This heart of death and drear...

This heart, it must be satisfied;
This heart, it must be filled!
For, we all see from deep inside;
The heart always distills...

Inspired by Ecclesiastes 1:8.
Sunny Johnson Sep 2011
On a great mountainside, a beautiful river ran, reaching all creatures across the great expanse. Glowing crystal and clear as the fresh alpine air, the water ran, as yet undiscovered and unmarred by civilization. It knew not of the impurities that other waters knew, free from the grasp of humanity and completely pure in it's design. Each spring as the snow melted, the river would charge through the forges and ravines, reshaping the ground in it's wake, changing the surface of the mountain in it's path. Stones would tumble and trees would crack under the raw power of it's force, as it gained in size and speed over the spring months. This spring however, it met upon a larger rock, seemingly a boulder. "Ha," thought the river, as it began growing rapidly, the melting snow empowering it as it crashed into the boulder, slightly changing course and returning to it's usual path. "I will be back soon." The river promised. As summer grew nearer and the sun seemed to burst from it's cloudy shield of winter, it began to show more steadily and with a greater heat than it had in springtime past. The blazing sun caused avalanches as it bore into the icy crust of the mountain top. The river suddenly felt something new, something changing, it was surely larger and more powerful than it had been in previous months, and as it charged down the mountain, it was sure of it's victory upon the great boulder. "Surely now this rock will not remain unmoved!" exclaimed the river as it flooded down the ravine, in search of the unchanging obstruction of mineral. The sun's rays had created an avalanche, dumping hundreds of tons of ice into the rushing river, melting the snow and creating a great roar as the river grew abruptly to 3 and 4 times it's previous size. As the river grew it felt a giant to all the objects on the mountain, proud and sure of it's eminent victory over the great boulder in it's way. As the water gained momentum and seeming to contain all of it's new fury in the roaring flood just for the great rock. A sleeping rock awoke suddenly to a roar and a crack as it heard many smaller boulders tumbling into the trees nearby, and the rumbling river rushing straight for him. "Aww, thought the old stone, yawning. "This will surely be interesting." As the rushing water advanced upon the rock, it had no idea what was to become of it's proud and boastful ways. Rushing water carrying all types and sizes of large rock and debris smashed into the great stone with all of it's might. The rock was unmoved. Little did the river know, this stone was rooted deep, a branch of mineral deposit coming from the very core of the mountain itself. The river had no chance. At the impact the water and debris scattered, and the river, suddenly defeated, splashed against the side of the rock and continued its usual path of the many years before. As it continued on, it felt something moving, carrying itself somewhere else, like someone or thing was pulling part of it away from itself, and it roared in agony, sending more boulders to crack into the trees nearby. Alive and kicking, and carrying it's own cry came a beautiful new stream caressing the side of a great stone in it's beginning, almost as if to thank it for it's place in giving birth to the new life. "You are welcome." Spoke the stone, supporting the stream in it's new path, as the water began to run fresh and new across the bare ground. The stream seemed to caress everything it came across, the roots of the plants and trees feeling thankful for a new source of water. Although the smallest seedlings would be lost in the stream, it was a good sacrifice to make for a source of that precious water so generously given to the side of the mountain with the large river. As the stream carried on, moving pine cones and pine needles aside, it brought new nourishment to all the life of the dry side of the mountain. As a small child just learning to walk, running to meet new people and see all the new things, experience the new life, the river ran. It glanced upon the tall oaks and the thinner pines and the smaller saplings. It rushed to meet the squirrel, carrying with it acorns fallen on the ground higher on the hill. It ran to bring uprooted fresh seedlings to the young deer. It brought with it fallen nuts and berries and left them near the bear's den. It brought freshly dropped dry twigs and branches to the wary ******, hunting for a new home. It brought with it pine needles and dropped them next to the trees with sparrows and blue birds hopping about for new materials to strengthen their nests. The stream ran free, bringing gifts to all it met with and inviting all to join it in it's path. The young of the forest gathered together, foxes and rabbits and badgers alike, to join the small stream in its journey down the mountain. Never carrying too much water as to uproot or change the surface of it's new found paradise, the stream was grateful to be a part of the dry side of the mountain, and that side of the mountain was never so dry. That side of the mountain never knew the fear of falling rocks or boulders. It never knew the fear of the flood of spring. It flourished with new life and greenery as it became privy to the little stream's side of the mountain to live happily without fear of flood or the dangers it brought. Each new day more bushes and saplings followed the little stream . The animals began to move from the great river's side of the mountain to the little stream's side. The river became lonely in it's wrathful wake, having only the rocks and logs it carried along as it's companion. Even the trees were scared to grow near it's threatening wrath. Loved by all and continually becoming the renown of the mountain, the little stream never knew such hardships. Such is why a little stream can be more changing than a great roaring river. To be feared by all or to be loved by all, is in the makings of every gaining current. The little stream never grew much larger than a dear's jump or a squirrel's leap. Except in the hearts of the lives around it. May we all be as little streams, not hungering to change the surface of our world, or to be feared. May we all live as the one who embraces all the forms we meet, being grateful for our own place among them. Then may we know what it is to live among many and loved by all. Then may we never know fear, or lose ourselves to a great boulder. May we change with the small movements of the ground beneath our feet, and carry with us gifts to all those we meet. May we be mightier in the heart than in the mind, leaving our hunger behind. May the little stream meet us too, and may we hear it's message clearly.
Sasha Ross Nov 2012
You mailed me a package with a note that said a person’s boots are the most intimate thing someone can own because they take the imprint of the body. On the other side you scribbled “Wherever I seat myself I die in exile”

Today I opened my email (well not really today, this was when my usernames still had words like ‘punk’ and ‘babe’ in them) and there was a little blond boy with the same gray eyes and a note that said “He looks nothing like me and everything like you – what a punishment.” The doorbell rang and I expected to find him at the door but this isn’t the movies and when I got back upstairs I realized I didn’t even know his name but my reply bounced back. I guess I never will and you won’t either.

You fed me ecstasy and popped my shoulder back in its socket so I wouldn’t have to go to the hospital. While I writhed on the floor you drove J’s truck into a church and punched a cop.

I got tired of competing over who could sleep with more of the other’s friends. ******* it even when I started ******* girls and doubled the pool from which I fished you got lazy and started on my ex-boyfriends and all I could think was “When did I start sleeping with gay guys?” But this was before we knew about more options than just gay or straight and I never thought about how maybe it was Freud who said we are all a little bisexual or pansexual or something like that

I was mad, both crazy and angry, when I saw the needles and the black and blue an association with T. D. J. W. W. sometimes hyphen R. produced. How pretentious to have that many names. Sometimes the explanation is worse than the action.

You broke into my (our) house in the middle of the night and these are the things you took: bedsheets, toilet paper, every flannel item on the second floor, grandma’s jewelry (mine, not yours, and she just died too) all the money in my piggy bank, *****, eggs, milk, cheese, actually all the food in the fridge, the **** you gave me for Christmas, the car keys but not the car, the prickly green welcome mat and one of the goldfish. Why wouldn’t you just take them both? The name Fishn Chips only works when they are both there, it doesn’t make sense with only one.

I think this was the first time I saw a grown man cry. How clichéd.

I don’t have to pretend to like coffee anymore and when I drink I inhale it deep until brown sludge threatens to invade my lungs. People say I look absolutely euphoric and once I said “Yeah it’s the only thing I learned from T” but that’s a lie because you also taught me how to pop security tags off clothes with a rubber band and what to do if you need to take certain things to or from Canada. Whenever I see a California area code I still don’t answer the phone. We haven’t spoken in years which I find remarkable considering how few I have accumulated and how few you have left. I saved the message you left me from the night you found that kid and I feel weird because the panic in your voice reminds me of when we got in trouble for things much less severe and it sort of makes me happy.

Oh how orange suits you (har har har). D says he thinks this will really straighten you out. This makes me laugh because I remember how you secretly like to sleep with the same boys as me. Then he leans over to a stranger, points to me, and says “That’s my only kid…a girl.” I don’t think we are coming to visit again.

The holler traps gasoline in the air and I imagine when coal trucks dominated these one lane roads it recycled dust the same way. You drank so much moonshine you swore you felt the mountainside breathing. Then you went blind for five days. When your eyes regained focus you drove my four-wheeler off the road and your leg burned pink and slick. A snake bit my left heel but no one noticed because they thought you would need skin graphs and you had such beautiful legs.

You sent a Christmas card to everyone and you were all the buzz at dinner even though I’m going to college and bought presents with my own money and J – forever your defender – says I should be comfortable in my achievements and you need a little more give and I made everyone at the table awkward when I told them that was exactly the sort of attitude that got you where you are now.

J and I went looking for you when you stopped calling for money. Two pounds for each inch we found your skin stretched tight over bones and while I coaxed the dirt from your hair you explained the proper way to tie an arm so a vein doesn’t burst. I can’t think of a single thing to tell anyone I know about you, so I don’t. I can think about all the speeches I would like to give to you – eloquent deliveries about what a selfish ******* you are. How you promised to pick me up and it was winter and I was so cold and embarrassed no one had come for me so I waited outside and walked to the store fifteen minutes away to use the pay phone and then walked back. Or how I insisted on saving my graduation ticket for you because you said you would come back to the state but then you never showed and called me ****** and still in California claiming it was February. I realized you were just like my dad and I cut all my hair off.

I was confused about how someone could live with us but not be related. When a birth certificate was just a piece of paper before you pushed me in front of a car but after you busted my face open – the definition of “taking it on the chin.” I still think you killed my cat.
Chelsea Jean Apr 2016
The call comes on a balmy night,
smelling of ancient pines, wet dirt and pure air.  
The Wilderness calls me through wolf howls that sound just like your voice.  
You laugh, pure and fresh, and sunflowers burst into life down the hill.  
You float through it all on the hot summer breeze,
your sun-darkened freckles driving me wild.  
Your timber arms are so far away yet close, unattainable,
but I am claiming my territory: here, mine. Mine. Mine.
My Wild thing, my wolf fangs, my cliff-jump.  

You are the roughness and turbulence of river rapids.  
You are the storm after the calm, rain like silk on my skin.  
You are the avalanche tumbling down the mountainside, destroying everything in your wake.  
Your alpine smile is the most intimate thing I have ever known.  
I am a victim of your torrent, blindsided and caught in the headlights.  

You are the Wilderness, compressed into long limbs, rough edges worn soft.
Shoulders like the Rockies, tall as the tree that the windstorm knocked down.  
I first caught a glimpse of the Wild within you through your eyes.
Blue like the ocean--
and beneath your usual still calm
I saw the rough waves of the Atlantic.  

I’d like to go for a swim.
A piece I wrote like, two years ago.
Lydia Cooper Oct 2012
What is distance,

But a plane ride

Or an 11 hour drive to the mountainside.

What is distance?

But miles and state lines,

And sunset and sunrise.

What is distance,

But watching loved ones come and go.

What is distance,

But something you can’t feel or touch;

You can write it and hear it.

Isn’t that good enough?
Clary Burn Sep 2016
What a strange thing it is
that as my tears pour like rain
and run down the mountainside
of my face

They taste somewhat like seawater
And I realise
I have oceans in my body.
amanda cooper Nov 2013
i said,
the car carving its way around the mountainside,
"this is going to be the song i play when you leave me."

you used to smirk with this kind of arrogance,
like you knew so much better.

yet here we are, five months later,
and as she arched her hips into me,
the song played softly in the background.

and i've got to hand it to you -
it's like i finally figured out why you smiled.

because even at my most distracted,
fingers fumbling in someone else's hair
and testing the tenderness of her skin...

that song,
or maybe that memory,
still turned my head away from
her and back towards my phone, back
towards the missed calls and angry messages,
towards the accusations and the insults,
and it brought me away from her
and somewhere closer to you,
to the mountainside.
and it reminded me of the
pretty weather, those blue skies
and the rocks piled high around us,
and what seemed like a joke but maybe
turned out to be more like a promise.
and you smiled, because
it's almost like
you knew.
for my rant, my favorite heathen.

[inspired by lydia and chuck palahniuk's novel Rant]

Paige Apr 2014
Where's the man whose love is big enough

To catch a waterfall?

Whose rain slicker is sturdy enough to let things roll

Who isn't afraid to stare down a stream

Or look a storm right in the eye?

This man doesn't run;

The water-bearer--

On his shoulders he lifts the weight of love.

Do you know how many times I've seen

A man turn and run away from me

Instead of rushing to the sea?

He trickles away from feeling;

He dries up.

No, the man I'm speaking of

Is more than an oasis in a desert of difficulty;

He is a full-on river

Gaining speed

As he rolls down the mountainside

Carving canyons as he goes

Defeating the foes

That try to make us hide

from our emotions

--In fact, this man feels oceans

And never turns back

On his decisions

Doesn't reconsider the love he's given

or what he lacks

Because when he lacks, he makes more.

This is the secret of persistence

That keeps the sea kissing the shore

Because at times the tide gets pulled back by the force of the moon

But this man keeps sovereignty over the moment, knowing that soon

He will come crashing back onto her shore

And she will be waiting.

Yes, the earth would wait

Solid as a rock

for his return-

Her faith unshakable,

Though she is moved by his caresses.

She remains ever the same,

But she is molded, changed

By his loving form.

Made even more beautiful

By his presence.

Where is a man like this?

I've yet to find

One with such ardent purpose of mind

As to sweep his lady love

Off her feet, in a great flood

Of kisses and hugs

and promises fulfilled

The man who has an immutable will

And an unalterable course

Who dissolves the rock

And inscribes his love into the very earth

Not just by strength or force,

but perseverance

And resolve for all he's worth.
Tommy Randell Nov 2014

I am that giver too
Touching forces with the light
That comes from you
Taking the flat but liquid words
As they trickle over meaning
The stones and roots
Of the memories that hurt
So much.

I know your life has been hard
And your thoughts behind it
Push you into being cruel
With your generosity
But we deserve more
Who give to you
And go on giving to you
We deserve at least some pity.

Something so clear
Once seen into
Cannot be made dark again
You cannot be made dark again.
I see a river running
Down a wooded mountainside
Over boulders and tree roots
Laughing secretly

When it is more times
Below-ground than it is
Composed of music for all.
I cannot repel you
Even so
I cannot walk the high ground
As others have done muttering
"Dry, dry, dry, is the river bed."
Ben Jones Feb 2013
Peter built a paper boat
Which he could float about the sea
To hidden spots of lonely coast
Where not a ghost or man would be
He painted words along her bough
That soon would plough and skip and trot
Between the waves that rose and falled
The boat was called 'Forget Me Not'

He bid his wife a fond goodbye
The tide was high when he embarked
He drifted from his tiny cove
While weather drove and seagulls larked
He set his course horizon bound
For solid ground of ****** shore
As darkness came he made a bed
To keep his head above the floor

The voyage took him straight and true
Across the blue, toward the sun
But soon a tongue of lightening spat
And thunder rattled like a gun
The waves encircled hungrily
And angrily about their prey
The tempest heaved with no regret
It blew Forget Me Not away

He found himself all caked in sand
And on a strand of desert beach
Forget Me Not had run aground
But safe and sound from tidal reach
He folded down his paper yacht
And found a spot to build a home
But saved the sail and rudder strings
To forge some wings and daily roam

He glided high and long and wide
Past mountainside and shore to shore
And through the night he forged a blade
And with it made a lumber saw
He felled the trunk and snared the beast
And cooked a feast to celebrate
The rain it sought to disagree
But quick was he to remonstrate

The moonlight waxed and waned apart
And on his heart a longing formed
For home and his beloved bride
For fireside and there be warmed
And so he took the house he'd made
From humid shade of seldom oak
He set the island to his aft
And cried and laughed the words he spoke

They matched the words he'd lately hewn
Beneath the moon in shady spot
He carved into that seldom tree
'Remember me, forget me not'
Nigel Morgan Apr 2013
Honourable Younger Sister,

This village is a world of stone. Lanes, houses, courtyard walls, towers, pavilions, tables, benches are all hewn from ancient red rock. The stone streets are lustrous with the passage of feet and shine in the moonlight; tomorrow they will glisten in the morning rain. After six days on the path into the mountains I finally rest at this inn. Here I can buy light: to write in this loft whilst the house sleeps, though a dutiful daughter dozes against the foot of the stair-ladder to serve me should I require sustenance. Frightened by my ugliness I summoned up my sweetest voice for her and soon there was a shy smile and downcast eyes. These are long nights for the village poor, but few here as poor as those whose shelters I sought on the path. Tonight I miss the steaming breath and ceaseless rustle of the animals brought indoors for warmth and security. My travelling robes are already filthy, but my body remains clean. As soon as I depart each night’s shelter I search for a stream to strip and wash thoroughly in the ice-cold water.

Dear sister, we have both been taught that the function of letter-writing is to unburden the mind of its melancholy thoughts in the form of elegant colours; its purpose to state one’s feelings without reserve. My thoughts turn constantly on whether I have it in me to ‘summon the recluse’. Have I the stamina, the patience, the resolve to seek out these elusive souls? Such thoughts induce fear rather than melancholy, fear of failure.

Already my journey into these mountains has crossed the season of late autumn into that of early winter. I am told the russet-red leaves and pink berries of the Ash, the deceptive Rowan and speckled-leafed Lace set the mountainside alight as the sun rises into a clear sky. For me clouds hang all day in the steep valleys, and so hide the heights where the solitary ones are believed to live. They alone see with the dawn the mountain peaks aflame   It is only in the very late afternoon that the sun melts the clouds, breaks through, and enlivens the landscape, turning it gold, then amber, and a final dull red before the blue blackness of dusk descends. Beyond this village my sources tell me there is real wilderness, and paths are few. I am to be my own guide.

You and I are so adept at the play of words. Our honoured father encouraged us, and as custodian of the Imperial Archives he knew how words could be arranged to both conceal and reveal; we played with the characters as other children played with coloured stones. So with the poems we call “Chao Yin”, let us play with verb “Chao” as both to seek and to summon. Chu Hsi, a courtier of that prince of Huai-nan, was sent into the wilderness to summon an errant official back to his post. His poems speak of terrors of the mountains, their ‘murky depths sending shivers of fright’ of ‘the caves of leopards and tigers’, and of the deep forest where ‘a man climbs from fear’. The poetic form uses “Chao” as in the ancient ceremonial song “Chao ***”. This calls on a dead person’s soul to re-enter the body, so ‘a summoning of the soul’. In those times such poems argued against the recluse, the withdrawn one, and sought a return. Today there is this feeling abroad that we need to consort with the recluse, to taste his solitude. Does the solitary life speak of the ineffable Way? Or is it in the search for the solitary one that a moment of enlightenment may present itself? As the saying goes: ‘to travel one must surely uncover truth’. In my bones I feel ready to invert this old poetic form. I must summon the spirit of the recluse out of the mountain fastness, but not seek his return. I need to touch his ways, see evidence of his mountain life, for a while to walk his paths breathing the same air. In my heart I expect nothing but his absence. I foresee I may reach his shelter and find his gate ajar, though the embers of the hearth still warm. He will be on some distant peak gathering herbs. If on a precipitous path I was to turn a corner and find him before me I have no words prepared. For the moment it seems I am exploring an idea through this summoning and seeking, not a living, breathing body.

Tomorrow I shall reconnoitre. My official hairpin and staff will command any audience, but for reliable answers, I am far from confident. There is always talk, rumours, sightings. The common people respect these beings as kindly mountain spirits and guardians of the wilderness. At the fork in a path, by the crossing place of a stream, corn, persimmons and millet are left for them. Such offerings will be replaced in time by the rarest mountain herbs, wild fruits, the skin of leopard or bear.

Your last letter spoke of ‘following my path into the mountains’. You have always defied convention, so it would be no surprise to find you here on my return, although I think your Lord would not sanction it. He would find such a request unfathomable. I am still perplexed at your situation, that you, the most homely of women should be so favoured, so adorned, and yet so free. It is that confidence you hold to yourself.  

To me, you have always been the essence of woman. What knowledge I possess of your kind comes from you alone. The infrequent gropings that occasionally present themselves I have only dismissed. An hour in your company smoothes and stills both soul and body. Your movements and gestures are always quiet and true, as are your woven words that sing in my memory on the path.

I read your letter
And savoured your words,
Your sorrowful songs of separation.
I can almost imagine your face before me
And I sigh and sob out of control.
When will we meet again
To amuse ourselves with prose and verse?
How can I tell you of my misery
Except with these woven words?

Have I remembered your poem correctly? I expected no response to my own lines on our separation. On the very morning of my departure your scroll arrived. I delayed to read it, delaying further to know your words: to carry them in my memory on my journey. In our respective verse we follow the way of tradition: the lonely woman in her room; the man travelling far from home. How many thousand poems describe this antithesis?

My life has always been sheltered by the expectations of scholarship, the requirements of official rank, and more recently acclaim due to my songs and poems. This journey begins a new page, as a seeker and summoner. Follow my path deeper into the mountains, be at my side when I rest, calm my fear of the heights and the depths of dark ravines, reveal to me the words to paint the scene. Know that I share with you everything that is to come, without reservation.

Remember the words of Lun Yu: ‘The good man delights in mountains. The wise man delights in water’. In these mountains the sound of water is present everywhere.

A stony spring rinses bits of jade
Minnows now and then emerge, and disappear.
Here what need of my silk-strung gujin? –
The mountain water has its own crystal song.

Your brother Zuo Si
Juhlhaus Jan 2019
Long ago my mother gave me birth.
From her molten womb in the cooling rain I took shape.
Wind and water gently fashioned me
And smoothed my hard edges.
Through riven clouds the bright sun warmed me,
And in the mist life wove me mossy coverings.
Day after day I listened to the wind in the heather
And the cry of the sea birds wheeling overhead.

Men found me on the mountainside,
Stripped me of my mossy cloak
And hauled me away on a cart of wood,
To be used for the glory of God.
With metal tools and hammer blows they fashioned me
And gave me hard edges.
They stacked me high on top of other stones,
Fitted me snug and sealed me in.
Through narrow windows colored light shone on the floor below,
And in the darkness voices rose with scented smoke,
Singing of the glory of God.

Men warred with other men, took each other’s lives,
And threw down what they had raised up.
Scorched by angry flames, I fell
From that high place to lie broken in the ashes.
Wind and water gently washed me
And smoothed my hard edges.
Through riven clouds the bright sun warmed me,
And in the mist life wove me mossy coverings.
Day after day I listened to the wind in the ruins
And the cry of the sea birds wheeling overhead.

A shepherd found me in the grass, lifted me up
And carried me away in his arms.
He nestled me alongside other stones
To keep the wandering sheep from deadly cliffs.
Though riven clouds the bright sun warms us,
And in the mist life weaves us mossy coverings.
Day after day we listen to the wind in the heather
And the cry of the sea birds wheeling overhead.
I would not have thought a stone could possess a soul, until I visited Scotland. This poem was inspired in part by a visit to the ruins of the Cathedral of Saint Andrew. I composed the poem a few months later, after a friend suggested I write an essay describing my spiritual journey through disillusionment and doubt. As I pondered this, it seemed that no essay could ever convey my bound-up thoughts and emotions, but a poem might begin to do so.
Sometimes the only thing that keeps me from going over the edge
Is imagining myself running, jumping and soaring
Off of the rocky, gray mountainside cliff
Racing towards the pit below
to be crushed by the
Hadrian Veska Jan 2017
Seven white lanterns
On a mountainside pass
The silver moonlight
Dancing on grass

A cool gentle wind
Blows down from the heights
The rivers above
The great northern lights

The earth here at peace
In reverent tranquility
Ever aware and secure
In its graceful fragility

That those lost be honored
On the mountainside pass
Where they died for all things
So that peace might last
Molly Hughes Dec 2013
I wish I could love my life and love myself
a little bit more,
fall on my hands and knees at every chance
and praise the life I lead.
I wish I didn't hate myself quite as much
and I wish I didn't recoil at the idea of my life,
the Grimm's fairy tale where Hansel and Gretel got eaten,
Rapunzel never threw down her hair
and Snow White was never kissed by Prince Charming.
The hatred burns hotter when I think of myself,
poor little rich girl,
sat in luxury in front of a warm fire,
belly full,
as thousands of kids in Africa bloat to death with paper thin limbs,
families in the Middle East are massacred and scattered across their countries barren landscapes,
innocent, too soon nearly corpses whither away in hospital beds,
sinking their teeth into whatever life they have left, clinging on.
I'm stable on the mountainside.
My family have never even seen a gun.
I haven't missed a meal in my entire nineteen years.
What the hell do I have to complain about?
My unhappiness disgusts me nearly as much as I disgust myself.

Sitting on a damp bus,
watching beads of rain rush down the dusty windows in diagonals,
like meteors crashing into Earth,
I curse.
I curse the vehicle,
I curse the safe home it's taking me back to,
the three course meal it's taking me from.
It's ******* sick.

I wish I could smile and mean it.
I wish I could love and not hate.
I wish I could love myself.
I'm so sorry for not being able to fully appreciate my life,
for taking it for granted,
for sounding like a spoiled brat.
You probably hate me as much as I hate myself.

That's a vowel I'm going to try and use less of
(at least after this poem),
I promise.
Oh the irony.

I am not looking for sympathy.
I am not looking to be compared to a dying child on the street.
I am not asking for a single kind word.
I just ask for a bit of forgiveness.
I don't blame you if you can't seem to find any.
Just know I'm sorry
and I'm going to try.


Marshall Gass Apr 2014
Banked up against a terraced mountainside
photogenic pristine rows
of blasting green
rows of manicured waterways
with two buffaloes treading ballet-like
between squelching mud and green shoots
the paddy fields stayed buoyant
all season through.

Come harvesting time
and thrashing the sunburied ripe
tendrils of husk and seed
along threshing traffic wheels
the husk sought divorce from
the long tongued long grained
wives -and parted ways.

Soon the pudding spent its silky smooth sexiness
on a plate of punchy aromatic costumes
that invaded the senses and palate
in sensual smoothness. Oh my!

Ricebowl pudding
of the worlds staple.

Author Notes
Gluttony beckons just now!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Jordan Rowan May 2016
Send me wild roses from the train
From a mountainside I'll never see
With drops of rain
Write me a letter from your room
When the night is old and the air is cold
I'll write one too

Wherever you are
Don't let this bring you down or break your heart
I'm sure you'll take it easy from now on
Now that you're gone

Send me Spanish boots in black
As a clear sign to my hopeful mind
That you're never coming back
Wrap them up in satin lace
With your perfume and golden loom
And a picture of your face

Send me everything I gave to you
Those little gifts around your neck
And my sweater too
For everything you send back to me
Misery and memories
Sets me free
Miriam B Sep 2010
This one I will refuse to destroy me,
Pick me up, toss me out and leave me in the morning;
The loneliness that echoes inside sets her free.

Spare the delicate moment of bliss or ecstasy
When day comes, abandon hope and leave me in the mourning
This one I will refuse to destroy me.

Dawn awakens the oblivion- the disillusioned fairy
Passionate sunlight erupts the stillness of dreamless dreaming,
The loneliness that echoes inside sets her free.

As the fire licks at the mountainside, leaving behind its vengeful debris,
Last night ignited this hateful inferno you are afflicting
This one I will refuse to destroy me.

Thunderbolt! Durga cast down the Depraved one, while he
Creeps into the naked night like a coward: fleeing,
The loneliness that echoes inside sets her free.

Tangled beneath sheets and limbs of a parted sea
It was only with your blind eyes you left, haunting
This one I will refuse to destroy me,
The loneliness that echoes inside sets her free.

— The End —