The climb is still the climb; the mountain looms
above the plank of barren steppes. The sky
is creased with orange sunset. Subtle plumes
of clouds in crisp and bitter blue imply
that god is still dividing firmaments;
at least god’s portion lingers in the air.
God’s equity has never made much sense
to anyone who’s ever said a prayer
of hope, when there is nothing in their throat
but dry and empty words. All words are vain.
Such prayers of hopeless vanity denote
a soul trapped in a mind that’s gone insane,
which hears, halfway to heaven, angels sing
beside a long depleted mountain spring.