By Jonothan Hunt
My very own mountain.
And every day the bell rung hours past And every day he tried his best.
When he felt pride, he tried to make it last To criticism, he would not rest.
And everything it took so much time Still the paper would be bare.
Every project seemed a hill to climb Sometimes a mountain there.
Then while climbing up his highest yet, He heard a sound ahead;
Tumbling rocks towards him set, In his vision, only red.
He couldn’t see a brighter way; He just kept pushing on.
Boulders crashed night and day He thought that he was done.
The storm above let in some light A rare and stunning beam;
Something he didn’t need to fight. He pinched — it was no dream.
He looked around and the rocks that fell Had made stepping stones below.
And in the better light, he could tell On which path it was best to go.
Then when dark clouds closed and his eyes were red, He would know his journey there —
And he could watch his thoughts and what he said And to others and him be fair.
This is about a random guy in a land-slide and definitely not a crass attempt to put recent goings on in a needlessly long, barely accurate metaphor.
Also, I promise the next one I write will be entertaining.
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