Frost On The Highest Peak Poem by James McLain

It has always been here but you never.
To many are your names, it is my, many forever.
Just when the frost of the highest I peak.
And rapid the stream out each door.
Quietness comes when after it does,
and quietness passes off by my head.
The feet of the many seen leaving deceased,
and I hang on to the walls.
Walking around the land of no fences,
the hole in the sky, sun it does.
But like destiny in March the rose bloom waits for May.
Of the head of our dead, growing up from the ground.
Without laughter moving sound,
as the wind bends them down even, I stretch all the more.
The door when you knock, opens some where else
but groans there crying wider,
sitting down as you wait, never seen when it came.
Was, the frost on the highest peak, I speak of.