The twisted path
from bathhouse to mountain peak,
was notorious violence.
I stepped on your child’s head
to reach such heights.
I begged, drooled, at the pub,
to control the narrative.
The
fluorescence
and excitement
died with me there.
Everything ran.
Nothing, since climbing,
remained special.
Spectral Agent,
the colour of cold.
Translucent
and brutalising the mountain.
I asked the Spectre if I am myth,
with antlers atop my head.
If now, at peak at last,
the wind’s storm shall
uproot my tree;
and maybe in some three-hundred years,
set me free.
Spectral Agent laughed,
as if I were nothing more
than a bodied statistic.
I would feel the weight of a child’s boot,
the destroyer that is the cold peak.
I would be smiled at,
and forgiven,
but from up here,
I’ll never believe.
You have to laugh, or you’ll cry. A drunken climb - euphoric at the start, ending simply not the way you wanted it to. All that, just to be crowned with antlers and a few blisters. Smashing, Charlie.
Very interesting poem, and image.
There is a futility in seeking meaning, success, and security if one is missing the bigger picture….
Perhaps all such attempts are doomed to fail.
Gravity - is a law of nature.
Grey