High On A Mountain Top

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

This poem reflects the feelings of the narrator, but the reader must decide how it ends.

High On A Mountain Top


I don’t fit in,

There is nothing,

Even though I look underneath

Every board and rock,

I am still left wanting.


This is not my world,

For in my world there is bounty.

My world does not depend on lies

To thrive.

In my world there exists liberty

To excel.

In my world there is freedom

To own property and labor for the purpose  

Of accumulation.

There is no tyranny where I come from,

Only the people’s unity,  

With truth ever  prevailing o’er the lie.


I do not belong here

Where the people do not even

Possess the right to question the process

With which they are convicted,

Only then doomed to slave inside an timeless wretchedness

And poverty.


But I searched in long endless journeys

That carried me far and wide.

I traveled the span of the entire earth,

Searching for an oasis where I could thrive.

Alas I see that it has been purloined from us,

No matter where it is that I may chance to be.

Such be a very bitter revelation,

That there exists no freeborn nation.


The years creep by and I never give up,

Searching for that land of prosperity.

Somehow I make it until my sixtieth year,

Then into my seventieth,

But instead of prosperity I have been handed

Only an incessant poverty.


Ahead in the distance I behold a mountain,

With a summit concealed inside the clouds above.

The ancient spirits on high are beaconing me,

Enchanting me with precious songs of an eerie iridescent love.


I proceed to ascend the heights,

Constructing an eastward facing altar of stone,

The prevailing feeling is of unseen eyes watching me,

An inexplicable  intuition that I was never alone.

I say that the altar was to the goddess Liberty,

With her is where my soul doth belong.


Oh how the years have passed,

I know not how long,

But for an eternity the angels still

sing their sweet songs.

Years and years later there swings a hemp noose

On the huge limb of a fir tree

o’re a deep precipice,

And bleached bones lay some thirty feet below

Inside a mountain crevice.






Submitted: December 30, 2016

© Copyright 2020 H.L. Dowless. All rights reserved.

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