Morning light gives birth,
To the sun-bathed mountains afar,
Armed only, with thistle and madness.

When the high-noon’s hatred has passed,
They are so kind to cool
And cool
Into deep shades of blue.

Until motionless sets in my bones,
Like a cold dead weight
And I’ve stalled inside failure’s shadow.

I’m spared over for tomorrow,
To be savored by suffering;
To be bathed, again and again,
By the high rolling sun.

As new heights afar,
Come roaring into life.