The Appalachians have had their day —
Have owned the sky, have loomed tall over
the valleys of their unborn brethren and
rainfall is the culprit in the hands of time.

Amidst the whisper of tonight’s nocturne,
behind a sheet of words enlight,
feeding the chimney of babel’s tower,
an ember glows beneath night’s mask,
under the crest of my powdered nose.

Embarked to belay the pit of self,
my gold at the bottom is but time itself.
Sturdy is the turn yet brittle is the string —
Entrenched in my circadian crusade
while dungeons of thought float about
sojourned in a dreamland to visit the dead,

resistless to my phobia of the rising sun,
promptness of a sandman from the west
whom I besmirch coerces my vigor
in paper walls, synchronizing my heartbeat with
a ticking clock at the prime meridian of my soul.

Like mountains the cataclysm of my birth
was nothing but sheer luck and destiny.
Rocks clash and break and slowly they die
only to reincarnate in a world brand new.