The Mountain

by Glen Martin Fitch

Oh mighty fallen Titan,
once so great,
with ancient purple cheeks
now cracked by tears,
has fatal time
so caught thee through the years
and kept thy backbone
to this rigid state?
What art thou still?
Thy clutching hands dead weight?
Each knuckle's rigor mortalness
yet leers the fear
that thou art dead.
Thy scalp appears
a snowy crown
now frigid by thy fate.
Yet is there frozen
in some cavern's yawn
still blood enough
of passion's molten flame
to stir thy sleeping body
from this trance?
Say this,
that thou wilt rise
'gainst what was drawn
and claim thy throne
and reign on never tame;
to take thy stance and
do thy cosmic dance!


Glen Martin Fitch's picture

Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."

Last updated August 24, 2011