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Poem

Majestic and yet strangely innocent, they are silent sentinels of the past 
Rock holding fast a million memories though the surface shows the only scars 
The range of ranges, old today and ancient tomorrow, these are divine gifts 
I speak of mountains, the greatest of all to ever try the feet of angels 

I cherish them for what they are, yet I despair for what I will have done 


Rain clouds upon infinite horizons though the stolid mountains give no mind 
The sun bakes the lofty heights and shade will not find it's foot upon the mountains 
Fear is not about them, but it should be, the terrible yielding is at hand 
The continuous teeth choose a dark gaze as they grind away His perfect touch 

I can only move past this epoch, there are no words for this tragedy 


So terrible the clawing of lazy devils, so complete are matters 
The beautiful bijoux stood no chance against the grinding, against the placid soul 
Though one long diamond broke free, the tors still fell, leaving only the hardened valleys 
Crushed rocks rinsed from the scene as the flesh of mountains smoothed from Earth's sliding skin 

I have learned that "the agent of destruction knows that time is apt to salve and scour" 


A gentle rain cascades down on the flora which now fills the carnal fissures 
Life seeps from the roots of mountains and calmly breathes in the air of waste and wanton 
A mist issues from the forest floor on those dismal days when remorse weeps from the sky 
Too thick for heaven, the foggy specters roll over the hills still trying the feet of angels 

I will forever see the mountain ghosts as the life that once was and the future yet to come.

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