monolith

Battle my mind:
This stone-scraped saber
Hilt of grey,
Its sway once wielded
Unquietly.
Sink your think-is-best
Through and through;
Chisel your smarts
Into my chest—
On acuminous arts,
My spoil is yours to win.
It’s true,
I’m thought-beaten thin.
But, then, make war
On my heart?
I take that mountain,
Star-scorched, duty-scored
And molten-made,
Warned you fairly
Against spurious spade:
You’re better to sip
Its foothill dew
And to feign a great fiction
On a little lore;
For that toilsome,
Gneiss-mawed,
Ice-clawed,
Turn-back-now trip,
You’re ten-thousand too few—
Maybe much more.