The Mountain

Every day I wake

at the foot of a mountain

Shielding my eyes as I look up

attempting to glimpse its peak

blanketed by thick layers of morning mist,

hidden high amongst the heavens.

Even the thought of ascent,

riddled with canyons, pitfalls and treachery

takes the ground from beneath my feet.

An overwhelm so palpable

it bears down like the great tsunami

towering over the proud city.

A helpless casualty,

watching powerlessly,

waiting to be devoured.

One can only put faith

in the strength of one’s roots

whilst being witness to the falling dice.

Standing tall,

best efforts to imitate the bamboo.

Hope planted deep into the soil,

into the earth,

a conviction that sprouts from nurture.

To stand as the eye of the inner storm.

The bushido postured ready

as a tempest rages

as the army advances,

thirsty for glory.

To assume the stance,

holding stoic demeanour

to reveal one’s naked steel

in honour of Truth.

It is to recognise the beauty

in the relentless onslaught,

of another breath yet drawn.

Lifting myself

out from my slumber.

I climb out of bed

wiping sleep from my eye.

Originally published at https://www.findingspace.co on February 3, 2021.