Top of the Chair

My mountain place beneath the storm, a home to spirits from long ago, the place where floating clouds are born and look below. The voice of Man cannot compare to solemn songs of mountain breeze where I sit in deepest prayer while spirits tease. In silence, they overcome me, in hazy gasps of living breath. Released, my soul is ever free and fears no death. The view of nature’s love surrounds and modern days just fade away. Upon her peaks and hallowed grounds I see gods play.