Will you tell me, oh climber, of ascents
among the nations? Of your catharsis
revolution enacted upon the soul?
Will you send a sign of greatness,
and hang it high upon a pole?
Can you climb into your being
and fill that longing with dirt and dust and chalk?
Will your patience lead to heights
of immeasurable countenance and lead
the immigrants home?
Tell me oh climber what you aspire
yourself to be.

Tell me oh sleeper of your dreams.
Whisper your thoughts and your thoughts‚ thoughts
into my gentle ear and subtly describe
your experience with devout failure.
Your beauty lives between four walls
trapped and chained to dreams, and to the wind.

Oh climber, bring to me stones from your walk
and let me examine your terror with mine eye;
or better yet, leave them with their arguments and
desires of uniformitarianism.
We shall brew a pot of tea and breath
and spew and sputter our disdain for our lack of
omnipotence while we excuse our climbing for
the search of such, knowing confidently
and silently
our desperate clinging and clanging chases
that being called life.

Oh sleeper, diminish your tears and drool
and flee this fleece bed with wool and feathers
and welcome the cold with laughter. For cold
only knows that sound of joy and opposition.
And cold is where life dwells, laughing wildly on a cliff.