To Build A Mountain

I glance at her, pensive.

Hands shoved deep in my pockets, I say

“But if I go there . . .

I don’t know anybody. And it’s flat,

what about the mountains?”

She gazes intently at her shoes as we walk

together in the sunshine.

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to kick up some dust –

make your own mountains.”

She grins at me, quite pleased with her answer –

no hint of doubt in my ability

to construct such a monstrosity. Because of course

it takes no more faith to build a mountain

than to move it.

The Night…

Maybe I do not expect you to understand.

How could you fathom such suffocating blackness,

when you were raised

to gaze at the beauty

of the heavens?

To you, the night sky

is but a backdrop for the brilliance

of the stars.

But the night . . . 

The night is a black hole

which consumes me.

It devours

my waking hours, and

desecrates my dreams

while I sleep.

It is a living death,

which could not be troubled

to die in truth.