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.
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