mount melanchol

My heart’s become gaunt of fate,
    My traipsing twisted;
  The air leaves my chest as
        Misted life at the Gate:
A rain-whisperer chastised by the sun for his chant—
            And choices.
      I can’t recall, and am of too little strength to recant,
The footstrikes that’ve chipped me away,
    Cracked the day, come what has—
          Nevermind May,
        With its vernal and evicting warmth.
I’ve beaten back and anger-stirred the swarm
    Of sibilating voices;
  I’ve been lost to their lull
      And, by that hull, spirited to where Denali
          Dips to kiss my coldish crown,
    As she rips the blanket-sky from me.
I swoon to tickle her icy toes;
    She knows to laugh me when I’m down,
        And to chill my marrow-bone
Until the hurt skulks on,
        Leaving me healingly alone,
  Bare-naked and broken-strewn along her rocky scree—
            Renewed at null.

 Play this, as well, if music is your thing:

—from MoonRacer, a fellow and infinitely more accomplished composer-musician than I am. You can catch more of his absolutely fantastic stuff here: https://soundcloud.com/moonracer-1

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    Poetry: Ghosts Becoming
        https://windstrewn.com/2020/12/09/ghosts-becoming-1/