On This Mountain

On this mountain high above the clouds
There is a flag, swaying softly
In the fragrant breeze rising
From the valleys far below.
Twisting and swirling into curling, crashing eddies
That rage in endless circles atop the peak.
It's once shiny rod is dulled - deadened in
Hoarfrost's firm grip, gnarled and bitter.
Silver flecked with dull white.
Deep footprints lie buried in the snow around.
Long filled in. Long forgotten save in the dead
Memories of unyielding rock and air.
The fabric itself is as hard and brittle as the wind,
Rasping and screeching with each billowing gust.
It whinces and whines in the cool deadness,
Only seeing light in that which escapes round
The taller peaks that surround.
Their great shadow seeming to dwarf it in the
Immense blackness whose depth fills the heavens.
No flag flutters upon their peaks.
No footsteps taint their summits.
The seething roar but a challenge, echoing down
The mountainside incorrigible. Daring and resolute.
But the sky darkens and passion fades.
For who looks up at mountaintops,
Swirling dreamlike in halos of stars
When we can sleep in the dirt.
Down below.