
It use to be that the safest place to rest a weary life would be on top of a mountain.
Above and away from all things that make no sense,
Feeling closer to the cosmos,
Being able to talk with the birds.
Perhaps the rays of the sun could scorch that part of me that I no longer need,
and have it peel away,
fall into a stream,
and get carried away into oblivion.
It would be so easy, if only I would.
It use to be that the safest place to rest a weary heart would be on top of a mountain.
To breathe in the air that feeds the place,
where mind and heart have no face,
and voice is all you hear.
It's time to take that trek.
Getting back to my mountain is a good thing.