The View
Vicarious through views of escalating peaks. I watch, as morning and evening waves collide. Letting velvet colors clash like violins in harmony, accompanied by near timpani.
And as I behold, letting simmer the joyful laughter of past. I see sites of memories play like children in open field. No limits to direction; only a desire to journey, to explore.
Letting unfurl the design of imagination. Soft morsels of joy escape in every second. But new joy is found, is it not? Though youthful in heart, in mind. Difficult it can be to cross time with youthful smile.
Yet, plenty lay ahead as views truly never change, they be merely skewed by place or sight. Nothing be truly lost, but stored.
Either cluttered by neglect or an ideal once thought for the better. Only to have buried the truth. Now hidden in spheres of shadows. Orbiting among far away glimmer. Constellations expanding to the passing hours.
I think, as I see clouds slow in overcast, over take the colossal peaks that never change. Remaining bold, robust, covered in the wake of ivory breath.
Oh, how high they climb, a challenge to all. But few now find themselves atop. Most are locked, trapped in their homes. Scouring the reaches of false reality.
How dearly, I watch, listen, feel the spoiling of man.
So few in youth clamber to see what is held in far places. Those reached only by travel of foot followed by soul. Now shrouded in anxieties and lies.
I give no resentment to my former, either in the good nor bad. For the poisons of my time were few.
Now like the stretching peaks against pastel vibes.
The poisons reach the sky. Consuming like dragons, scouring for the feeble. Leeching the fawns by scheme. As lost bucks and selfish doe’s request audience over lesson.
Lies over truth and sin over humility. But the peaks, the peaks never change. The heights remain beyond keys, beyond the crowds of cheering attention.
Perpetual friction plays us. It hurdles us like a shrew tossed by the talons of untamed feline. To elude, we know to be only temporary. For dragons, predators, of skies or land.
Shall seek us, find us, vicarious in jealousy. As often as we are with the past. Our eyes glean toward the falling star. Dilation of heart as it passes, dying in an instant.
Unattainable, rapidly I fall. A ships hulls snapped in two. Admiring, yet shivering. As my net, once again bares threads too wide. So vanishes the memory.
Goodbye, are many nights, many mornings. And afternoons are the breaks between the coverage of the storm. Tastes of seasons perch upon branches of sight.
Quickly extinguished by the now. Maybe such haste is a warning. The mountains remain in strength and shall remain so. But I, shall fall prey to the finite.
I, am not alone in this, think not such to be alone. For there are colors to be painted, places unseen and those never to be seen. For I, be a treasure trove others cannot map.
As well as the stranger whom gives but a passing glance.
Yet, we look to the same flickering lights, the same bursting sun.
How beautiful, the etching view of vicarious thought. But how unexpectedly gorgeous, be the flourishing present.
I pray not to be chained to the ideal that mountains be tyrant but, a meaningful nourishment.
