A pious man sat alone on the mountain-top.
He stared out at the tall, thin, dark trunks of endless trees,
their brown-orange leaves dancing in the nauseating autumnal breeze.
He felt the wrinkles on his palms,
harsh, weathered after many years.
He tried with all his remaining might to keep his mind on songs and psalms,
but he failed and cried his lonely tears.
A pious man sat alone on the mountain-top.
A certain king stood
away from his throne
and clutched hard at his
royal pajamas.
He cried out,
into the dark,
about his loneliness
and his other
day to day issues.
“Are there”,
he thought,
“people out there
who are hearing me?
writing down,
cataloging,
the things that I say?”
No word writ by man
nor song sung could show the truth
of my aching love.