Within a mountain blue poured below,
A trickle of snow rolls from hence,
Breaths of ice form at base yea low,
He did not see himself at all then.
Like clockwork, each gear at work,
Care naught for same sans its move,
What shall we spell? His feet went.
Then his hands. Then his head.
Didn’t care much about an avalanche,
What better disaster than his gain?
“So, I’m before a lonely hill,
There’s not much here. I’ll follow.”
Working away and soon he’ll live away,
Now there’s a cause for freedom!
This danger does not become him,
This fear he knows yet he resists,
So walk, nay climb, up this snow:
Look down. See your past down there?
How shrunk you were, swallowed by snow.

Nature, Poetry, Works
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