Mountain Madness

Mountain madness, and the call of the wild evening, in a song of decision, and the air around, cracking like a nut. Progression in the movement, in the nerve, and the now compliance of the walking calf. and sitting down at the Coombe, and contemplating the streets of the city of Dublin. And taking a certain past into the now, and allowing it to merge, and discovering that only death will allow merging with the recent death, if even? And love in a disguise of antipathy, enforcing a change in memory, and life remains still, through spirit, and the freedom to be, and be for another, of precious love and closeness. And of course the denial of some, lies to the truth, in a delusion, in an immature conclusion, in an innocent wrong. And yet no anger, no bitterness, but no love achieved, an attempt only of empathy, of care and understanding, and hoping and loving in this hope, that time will guide others to the same.