Light Atop the Mountain

See the little light atop the mountain?  The only living dream in the universe, as I nestle in my moving bedroom tent.  Mother earth and father time have gone asleep deep in the caves of our home, but late night I race and pedal miles through fairytale paper trails, examining inch by inch Jesus’ nails and the masquerade created.

Through the cedars the animal families light a candle in memory of the day, the one that caused the turnaround and blew them all away.  We were there huddling arms intertwined like ancient vines, just waiting for the moment, the very moment we’ve all been waiting for, the answer to the question we collectively have spent most of our lives trying to untie.  What exactly happens when we give in and die?  Do moments cease to exist?  Does our narcissistic being no longer resist and do we melt like liquid gold into a community pool to flood the earth and leave it a vibrant artifact in foreign planet skies?

It was never for anyone to decide, the day may never come, but if it indeed does, we know who to put on the line in front of a mythical god’s jury to listen with stone ears to some creature’s story.  There is no misery, only mystery that leads us into an eternal nighttime forest.  Through snow, sleet, rain, hail, sun, clouds, smog and haze.  All the precipitative walks of life.  Soaked shoes, someone else’s boots, would you fancy a trade?  Would you like a taste of that which I am made?  Oh no! My composition is very much the same.  You are my brother, my sister; we are all infinitely the same with developing tales and varying names, essentially the deciding grounds.

And so, I just reflect, dissect a single moment sparked by the light in a lonely mountain range and with such a small little spark existence shatters and regroups from nothing into nothing.  But live and time to kill living well.


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