Son of The Holy Mountain

 

Cold water king.

Blood of the Holy Mountain,

crystal clear,

except for when it rages,

smashing falls through the canyons.

This is the place you made,

the only inheritance you had.

Fatherhood for you

consisted of a sunrise

and a sunset

and no boundary in between.

So strange now,

that I have found

myself shackled to a wheel.

Carnival merry-go-round,

two-bit hustler,

paint flaking and starting to rust.

 

Man,

I really thought I understood.

Thought that hate and revenge

would be enough,

and they were,

but only enough

to keep a man

from drowning.

I have come to learn

that treading water

is not living.

I guess that’s why

I keep looking West.

Those old Rockies

are still Mecca for me.

Shangri-La.

El Dorado.

Lothlorien.

Hidden and fantastical places.

 

I remember you showed me

how to listen to the trees.

How to see the forest floor,

and stalk the creatures

that called it home.

How to live with care,

for the wild world

always seemed to care for you,

but the hatchet eyes

of the grin and bustle world

never did anything,

but fuel your rage.

Rage and paranoia.

 

I guess that’s why we found you

on the edge of the world.

Mountains all around

and that clean water

coursing through your veins.

That’s how I was raised.

Progeny of the western ranges.

Nothing in this world

has dominion over me;

only God,

and those snowy peaks.

 

I have decided

that I want to die

with a view of the Rocky Mountains.

Heck,

any mountains will do,

after all,

a man can’t be too particular.

I just want

to live out my days

in the best way I know how,

the way my father showed me.

One with the wild things,

because he was a wild thing,

and I

have that same

crystal clear,

glacier fed,

blood in my veins.

 

 

HG – 2022

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