The peaks are glossy and slightly pure,
As the blanched over tops are acquainted and stirred,
Musks of fog rolls over the apex,
Mother Mary shrines without rest,
As seen in cinemas and things forever told,
The stillness of the air creates a chill to the cold.
My hands are numb and the ground is stained,
My heart is covered in the chill of which came,
Sailing in the reserved doubt,
Is it time to huddle inside or open up and shout.
Fireflies are bioluminescent,
Fluttering in the point of pleasant,
With beauty of light and love,
The fireflies ignite as they slowly fall from giving up,
They see the darkness that the world withholds,
To much pain is there to conquer in this cold.
For the peaks are high and mighty now,
If I climb I descend down to the plow,
Where rivers run north and the light is not near,
The critters of beauty have fallen in the clear.
Pink has turned to black in the sky,
As the sun sets amongst the towns waiting to die,
For life has ended for no peace has been found,
The race of the human culture has been extinct due to naught being found.
Here I am standing on the top,
Take me now so the struggling will stop.
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