I crawled atop a lofted, craggy hill
With neither safety nor my own well-being
Concerned; With full intent of taking fill
Of the sight offered; To be seeing
A world majestic and so unrefined
That one with poet's prowess would be sore
To not capture its awful grace in mind,
And translate it, stripped from mantle to core.
But as so often happens, any peak
Can be too high for one unlearned as I,
And then an intimate, but not unique,
Collision with reality is nigh.
Glossed wings of wax could hardly elevate
That which carries such egotistic weight.
June 23
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