Somehow, words tend to fall short.
Clichés of bleeding pens,
Of pouring hearts onto pages—
Nonsense!
They never crossed the writer’s door.
Ring-fenced within words, the heart is mute.
To believe otherwise is vanity—
It’s foolish
One can write and write, yet the words arrive stale,
Pale and cold in the shadow of mountains
They try and fail to describe
I do not know which medium would suffice,
Just not that of the scribe
How many times, in how many ways,
Have I longed to make you see through my eyes?
Make you believe what I believe—
Yet as soon as the word is written,
It is at the mercy of what you perceive
It’s make-believe
And then somehow,
The mountains I peaked become molehills…
Or maybe..
I’m just blaming my pen.
Tag: mountains
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Summiting
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