I was a mountain once
written by a blind hand
and there I stood remote
from human interference
just a mountain of stuff
not distinguished so much
lording over my domain
sovereign in neutral space
contained as I wanted or
inclement as I had to be
shape my distortion and
that wasn’t really bad.
What rolled down my sides
flowed in my sound mind
left little sleep to reason.
Walk my barren clime.
Pitch wherever you like.
No longer part of nature,
scrub-weed fills my head.
When the grass was full
I sang a different song.