My mountain was made of paper; leaves; chemicals;
and the slow burn of addiction.
Its been several years now, since I set it in stone.
Wrote majestic poetry of how it nearly killed me, that
un-godly act of walking to Jerusalem with roughshod
eyes and heavy lungs.
I burnt you down-
made matchsticks out of your greed
with a snap of my thumb, I'd set you afire;
red dragons chased spittle from an open mouth.
Now, you are a painful scar
in my heart, a reminder of what not to do.
The very core of that mountainous ridge resides
in my brain. Occasionally, dreams blow chalkdust
to my lips; and I blow the top off the clouds
of a seared memory
away.
away.
And the poet licks the nib
scribbles inside the notepad on her desk
- a post-it to self; counts the years since she stopped.
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