What laid me here atop this mountain so
: A collection of thoughts
Reared of only my dreams.
What beauty drove me to season’s edge
: Climbed ever higher
To divine what I knew cried.
What left me open
: Observing, witnessing, counting
Driving my layers of skepticism.
Why did I not hold my here heart
Though I knew it was you
Who held such precious space
For there it was
Forgotten with the dust settled in the corner
Yet overseeing neither bond nor collection.