This is the one I'll take tomorrow.
Mountains
There was no question as to where he would go;
His heart knew the need; memory led the way.
So, with two guiding lights, he drove through the night,
Making for the mountains in his mind.
He was both running away and running to;
Fleeing from new doubts, returning to old faith.
From a contaminated fountain, he fled,
A young sponge full of something foreign.
New thoughts had bubbled forth: “chance” and “mutation”;
And then, the eons poured forth from their fountain.
The sponge held his own but was wrenched nearly dry
And questioned the mountains in his mind.
Through cold folds of dark night, he traced old mine roads,
Thinking of nature’s treasure below and around.
But now the new thoughts had clouded his own;
He needed the mountains in his mind.
Then, in his rear view, a red Rose was rising;
And her hands touched the air that parted his hair;
And, as night cried farewell, he climbed the last hill
To meet with the mountains in his mind.
There gathered below, in the old shining glow,
Were the three peaks of his youth that he still loved.
For a moment he was blind; light from behind
Reflected and shone on his forehead.
With warmth on his skin, the young sponge soaked it in,
And he beamed with his forehead still glowing.
Then, a dark, darting thing dove into the road,
A strange beast, like a frog with a tail.
He swerved to miss it; his head shattered the glass;
And the car toppled down from on high.
The young sponge was wrung out and fell into shade,
And so did the mountains in his mind.