And these words were too strange for mine to touch,
To even scrape against and disturb their relentless peace.
That early morning breath that some men borrowed
And some men stole.
To inhale from that fog a thick cloud of course,
Unfiltered human horror.
To let my lungs be frozen by its unholy sincerity.
Its dreadful truth.

I could not reach this mountain with
What amateur carving tools and ice picks I carried.
I could not touch this morning. This chill.
Could not skim my fingers against the horizon
And watch the bright colors dance for me and my will alone,
And then to illuminate a world
For those down below.

To be looked up at, their mouths open,
Accepting my mournful sighs
Or gustful bellows.
To watch them exhale this ever-evolving nature of words
And pass it like the plague that was The Enlightenment.

I could not sit atop Olympus
And feast with gods,
A mortal.