From the mountain’s base he gazed 
Upwards towards the summit,
A foreshadow of the climb to follow. 
He began to scale the silver rock—
The slithering trail which winded
Towards the heavens. He believed
He would be forgiven at the apex,
So he hastened his step and pulled
His lithe form forward evermore. 
His lunges burned, embers scorched
His throat and he could not bellow
The cry which needed to be bellowed. 
He dragged his body onto the peak,
And picked thorns out of his flesh.
The respite—salvation—he sought
Evaded him as it had for decades. 
He was awed by the beauty around
Him that he could sense but not see—
He was blind, buried by the ideology 
That each man is only given one chance…
One chance for happiness,
One chance for peace of mind,
One chance for love.
The façade he fabricated lingered,
To protect the delicate flesh within him. 
From the stillness of the mountain,
He took a boundless breath to refill
Lungs, which had been deflated.
The scene before him blended 
Into the backdrop, but the story
He wrote remained etched within
The weathered rock. 


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