Poem
What Scribes a Mountian Makes
Ah, what scribes the mountain makes
stretched in noon, and bathed in light
halos of clouds, lilting or'head
shadowed and proud in easy watch,
of glorious day, for town and valleys.
But alas, this day is not so,
to the worried, weighed down
by their own hands, as they smithed chains
wound round on their flesh, and fusing to bone.
Trudge they along, dragging a quarry
mountian, stand vigil, and note down sadly,
though day is bright and sky is clear,
darkness painted on them,
spring's caress seems a glare
too lost in their problems, scarred by the ink
written in self, written penless.
Not the breeze, nor the trees make better
just clothing the writer, still noting sadly.
People see only the weight of their chains
forgetting the lock, is just as inconstant
as they leave, crumbling as leaves.
Ever crafting their chains,
ne'er making a lock, but forgetting it's absence
noting no simple pleasure, to the mountians dismay.