Quest (Poetry)

I am waiting for the mind’s most guarded mountain to appear —
those secretive and damp, softly clinging folds of mist
to slide aside their curtains — unhook miles of fabric loosely hung — divide —
peel back — dramatically reveal a granite face — rough-hewn
by all the weathers that the world can hurl at it —
ice-fractured into frowns — storm-induced despair cut randomly —
the full history of inner conflict — ongoing — emotional as psychic warfare.

Rocks give a crude account of every hurt — each blow
rained down on cheek and brow —
the elusive sun for kisses where the peak yearns to touch
a disinterested sky. Gullies hide old bones in shadows —
the half-forgotten lovers who once dared to test themselves up here —
imagined they might outwit the moon —
riddled with cold — entranced with loneliness and even hope they came.

There is no measurement for clouds — their cloth unrolls —
unravels threads and weaves a weightless shroud —
a timeless tease — a blind to fool — mislead
the romantic-led believer in his trance
betrothed to beauty — all fear and fierceness kept
as tools for sacrifice — no matter what their forecast is
or how the runes tumble — shower down random and obscure advice.

Love is the grail hid deep within some unmapped cave —
and dragons dwell there even with the pearls the moon’s been polishing —
she knows their gleam will lure all-comers — cut the seething veil
with shafts so pure they burn like fiery breath
until all is passion — focused on the precious and so-rare
and truth strips all things — renders every thought and dream
original — untarnished — a treasure worth the risk.