Table Mountain (Art By Moo)

Blasted sand-scrapes,

Whistle the chapped leaves,

Screaming bright sunlight–

Part the quaking clouds.

A wind of shushed whispers–

Moan through the ancients,

Riddled, splashed with colorful heat,

Time-scarred canyons–

Chalked to rubble like powdered bones.

Whisked down with rain–

A sandy mudpack crisping–

Choking on the last breath,

Cool, clean water, gone.

An imposing night,

Ceaseless, holding,

Red cheeks pitted–

Flushed.

Ever-dry against the gale.

Remembering the summits–

A shadow of itself…

Great in the memory of pouring mayhem,

Shattering the sky with billowing hate,

Slow-moving basaltic-hell unfurled,

Cascading down the slopes,

Petrifying the unsuspecting.

Ruptured earth-melting–

Bellowing an ashy-death,

Ruling all.

Lost.

Dead within.

Told in the story of stones–

And old rivers of electric blood–

Hardened, frozen.

Corked somewhere underfoot–

Bleached from its roots–

Distant from the source…

Standing with old peaks,

Going the way of history.

 

TableMountain

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