There is a top, where all must get off
Some will be lifted, back to the past.
There is stop, life is a dance.
People search for slops, crumbs become dust.
There is top, where most attempt to climb.
Slow braking for some, the end of the ride.
A hard crash for others,
Senses subside.
Lust for the lush, ideal home.
There is hindering, under the bones.
Instore is a thunder, that readies its roar.
Crater bell we ring, summit utters its demands.
There's an old song coming from the highlands.
There is a climb, take a rise, rub my sin.
Can't rub away my purpose, see it from within.
Standing even taller now, humid fog on knees.
Metamorphic heart immune to your disease
The mountain reads aloud, every word I wrote.
Reverberating verbs, from its stoney throat.
The words travel up, toward a fussing sun.
Reads the next line, with granite chimney lungs
Loosening grass roots, rigid searching hands.
Winter cast it's net, summer killed it's plans.
There is a song, coming from the highlands.
Dust to their apathy, glory to the mountain.