Scree and Talus

 

Mountains reach

towards the sky,

stars above

and ashes below.

Mistakes pave

the alleyways,

like rocks discarded

in a landslide.

 

Sometimes,

staring up

at the sky,

one’s eyes pick up

the dust cloud

of the galaxy,

and sometimes,

they drop down wearily

to trace the curvaceous line

of the avalanche.

 

Memories rest

in broken piles.

Difficult to traverse

the wreckage.

Buried in the

scree and talus,

pulverized identity.

 

The old, white peaks

still gaze at the stars,

all of our folklore

claims they know the secret

of the forgotten world.

The burial,

an abject ceremony.

 

Watch the next turning

of the Great Serpent

from the same little

rocky mountain valley.

Ignore the sounds

of War and Famine

as their horse’s hooves

beat the sky,

chasing their brethren.

 

Death comes next

and the Great Hunt

will ask us all

to join their party.

This was all written

in the dust

at the foot of the mountain.

 

Days go on,

and nights fall,

until we build a fire

and lay low,

seeking our place

between the dust here

and the dust

way up there.

 

 

HG – 2022

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