Silent Giants
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At the end of it all, the mountains remain. To them we're dust, and when we are it is neither a victory or a loss. They just exist, and we toil.
High above us, guarding, looming.
Wild things about them, grooming
The Earth for their fertile graves
In the fires, all-consuming.
Within windows, moms and babes
The crying hushed as storms rage.
Crashing, thrashing for what seems like years.
Each moment suspended, a flash of days.
What lives in a man, only hopes and fears?
Other things that precede tears
Could never hide what's blooming
On the mountainside, above the cheers.
Giants' never won or lost; the doom is
For smaller things. Empty clouds behooving
Their prideful minds, empty as what appears.
Dust is the end as the mountain's looming.
Copyright © Andrew Travis | Year Posted 2018
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