PIMPLES IN THE SKY

Come, fly with me, beyond the cold sun,
Past the orbit of bleak depression
Into that timeless serenity
That lances the pus of memory
And unlocks the hot, imprisoned high
That is our birthright, until we die

Aye, journey with me, down past that sea
Where there be dragons and bourgeoisie,
Into that world where we walk the peaks
With the pink alpine blush on our cheeks
A world of blue skies and azure tarns
Marked with white slashes and mountain cairns

Beyond this valley, beyond this vale
There lies the trail to our holy grail:
The mountaintops whose white roiling mists
Hide quiet castles where peace persists.
We will stay in turrets in the skies
And (w)rest our souls from the empty lies.

The quiet zen of the Buddha calls
Tranquility, where there are no walls
And we can, together, make your place
As a real guide for the human race.
We will celebrate the true debut
Of you, the final mountain guru.

You, who extract from the miasma
These mangled threads of pain and pleasure
And articulate, with empathy
The sense and price of our agony.
Favor us, please, with some of your grace
Outside of time, and outside of space.