Between the mountains of pain and of vengeance,
nestled deep below the hillsides of incongruity and despair
there is a valley.
Far below the immeasurable altitudes of avalanching hopelessness
and the caves where hypocrisy lays down its filthy head,
there is a stream, running over clear waters.
You have traveled so long, conquered summits
of disbelief, blaspheming names of your very own prophets
and nestling the flag of your nation
atop a mountain range named First Regret.
You are growing accustomed to the higher altitudes of
astonishment and triumph, but I have found a
Meadow
spanning wide across fields of tranquility and silence.
It is a bleak walk here and you are preoccupied
with the bests you call Guilt that try to throw you from your mountain
but you will not be slayed (yet).
And I will rest my head
by the waters that run so deep you could not fathom
a single breath of ocean air from
where you are standing.
For it is a long, wild rugged path to get here
through the pathways of pride and of anger
never reaching the summit, never knowing
quite when the dawn will come.
But this field is called forgiveness,
sprawled out over the lowlands of sadness
and sprouting up gardens of hope.
And if you ever come down from your mountain,
sword surrendered, ammunition
laid down for the day,
I would love to meet you here.