He can smell sin burning
Just beyond the week’s
Steep and jagged peaks
And his stomach is rumbling
With a villainous hunger

The white smoke climbs,
And it strains to welcome
This traveler who strides
In hopeless pursuit

He’s always nearly on the cusp
Of his greatest escape,
Never meeting the thrill
Of spilling down the slopes,
Into the dreamless smoke
And the bleary sunrise