To a mountaintop,
none spare a glance at a climax in Everest’s shadow.
Feeding into anxiety’s legion propagated by inadequacy,
the mental jury will take stock of all evidence.
Henceforth find oneself wanting,
striving in vain for a journey’s end now declared lacking.
The ground stood on now was trodden on before.
A home’s land was bought and sold,
and before then it belonged to fields of old.
Steps forward are never the first,
all but a camera’s flash on Holocene chronology.
Careful study has printed a label prematurely.
Forerunners for never, forever,
suppressed by the smog of history’s prior progress.
Sing out the soot but the lungs release a familiar tune.
Arching overhead in clouded heads and foregone nights,
up high sits the metric to which no leap can match;
the moon has already become mapped.
A tale is already spoke, written, disseminated, discarded,
embedded into humanity as unbending fabric.
Jealous eyes are quick to the gavel.
A hand out of the smoke is hammered back into its category.
Gold is malleable but its fame is preordained.
Jealous eyes guard their prize.
One taller than another is a threat to stability.
Gold of the spirit is malleable but the potential is an act of war.
Calculated in the mood of vengeance,
those closest round down to the furthest depth,
deconstructing the rival self for another rung on the ladder.
All hands come on deck to tie down the dreamer for dreaming too high.
Encased in a circle surrounded by wolves,
inspiration will be picked dry,
spoken, written, disseminated, discarded,
abused by embraces dressed in sheepskin.
Fight or flight versus jealous eyes,
yet the result is always equated to wanting.
( ❤ Mitch)