The sunrise was cut in the middle by pilings
of rocks and of magic. And of lightning and grace.
Ah, such wizardry, really... a world washed with whipstalls.
The words in rough heaps that explained all the questions.
The questions unanswered (despite all the words) , the monoliths standing there,
Prompting more. Telling less.
The mountains were fireworks, grounded by tunnels.
The tunnels were endless, buried 'neath stone.
It was all so worthwhile, willful and right.
Then, my mountains were dreams boldly solid. And large.
And the peaks were as high as I placed ...