I Will Climb

If I become the paper could you know? If I, the ink, would meaning flow? These living characters, each a multitude beseeching through each interlude, as God’s own winter snow for silent ears unheard in minds that never grow. I cannot bend the grass without that mirrored glass of time be broken. Each curve a thoughtless token tossed, rewritten, tossed again upon an endless sea; given up to my stupidity. No beg nor plea no un-uttered silence be, this endless ache humanities only child. This mad messenger so like you, unfree. A line is cast, a point beheld and hope eternal springs anew; could this one word reach anyone but you. I cannot manufacture the word, produce not sound nor fury felt, spark to thus induce true passion now ignite beneath the breast of knowledge, all truth melt. Moot question where, when, why or start; each utterance from truth depart left with silent witness in the gaping yawn of awe for having been a partner in his part. Endless circle wider wisdom’s chasm deeper still, with naught to bear but will. Not with mingled forces pressed upon me could I hunger more for syllable from out frothed mouth become. Only madmen share my sleep, upon the holy give my soul to keep and life will be my only rest until again I climb.