Passes swerve, a shadow up a mountain.
Snow valleys litter.
Like strewn blobs of paper,
a writer's infinite attempts at free verse.
a writer's infinite attempts at free verse.
A mountain trail here
and an eager stream there,
the recluse makes an appearance.
and an eager stream there,
the recluse makes an appearance.
Closeted in hearty laughter of a jocund company,
hidden in mindless banter.
Not anymore.
hidden in mindless banter.
Not anymore.
The mountains engulf. They fill a void.
But like lonely caves in a forgotten civilization's past,
they create another.
Hollow, but deep.
they create another.
Hollow, but deep.
Rivers move on, like a clock's hands.
They ebb and flow as they please.
Upon meandering paths, up mighty peaks,
down crooked crevasses.
They ebb and flow as they please.
Upon meandering paths, up mighty peaks,
down crooked crevasses.
Tales weave themselves in and out of a distant mind.
Lost, bipolar and ecstatic.
A puppet, stringed in nature's game.
Lost, bipolar and ecstatic.
A puppet, stringed in nature's game.
Fleeting moments, like a lightning's streak,
flash and fade. They flow with a river's song,
they rise like a mountain's pride
and fall like a stream's humility.
flash and fade. They flow with a river's song,
they rise like a mountain's pride
and fall like a stream's humility.
And then, out there, in the real world,
plains gather dust. Concrete jungles tempt a living.
They are on their own trip.
plains gather dust. Concrete jungles tempt a living.
They are on their own trip.
But that fleeting moment,
is it really over when it ends?
is it really over when it ends?
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