Through the looking glass,
the light refracts,
making a menagerie of all perspectives.
From forgotten dreams
and their shadows cast,
the still concedes as the past retracts,
to allow the wind to rush from will's direction,
and I sway.
Peering down on possibility
from where the fevered fight the urge
to romanticize and fall for
every unturned stone,
I stumble on the edge
of the crevice where I perch,
unable to shake the notion
that I have imposed upon
the surface of the Earth—
still I plant my feet, loosening the rock,
until I give in to the gust
and come careening down this paradox.
Choice bears such little weight
in a world that gets its way.
Belittled by both pride and chance,
and fallen victim to the fickle hand of circumstance,
I plead and chase the echo
to dissuade my fate in vain,
and find myself once more
strewn out on the plain,
unsure of whether I should count
my bruises or my blessings.
One with the sick and thirsty,
who crawl in circles round the well,
I fail to attain the far away,
and still I see for days.
and becomes the blemish,
as I fixate on the faintest trace
of a worn and ancient range,
toward which I grasp while I grimace,
smiling through my teeth,
aspiring to the parable
never quite within my reach.
Beside myself below this burden,
cradled in the valley of the consumed and cynical,
I look up to the peace of mind
that exists as a ghost upon the pinnacle.
I struggle to muster hope
amidst a will not all my own;
subjected to the malevolent,
and captive to the drone.
When the ground is where my heart rests,
I'll always long for home.
Through my roots I'll find the wellspring
to manifest the dream
where all that was ever temporary
fell into the arms of the evergreen.
I dig deep and reach a familiar plateau,
and looking back down in disregard
to everything I've come to know,
I cry out my inclination
that I am in control.
The wind stirs and reminds me
of all the steps it took,
so I squint to where the balsams meet the sky,
and polarize my outlook.
Warily I wonder how much further I must go
to eternalize my place
above the strife I've left below.
The storm lifts me from conjecture,
and my illusions of control
meet the elusiveness of grandeur.
With yet another gust,
I'm called out on the bluff—
and once more I tumble down
to experience the beauty in the climb back up.
Mesmerized by the immeasurable,
forsaken, and immiscible,
I forever fall like a windswept rain
to collect and become the current of my own renewal.
Unraveled by the push,
and rewoven through the pull,
may this balance never waver.
The valley makes the mountains beautiful.