You were once mighty, Oh Mountain of My Dreams.
I loved you when you were over there in my imagination.
Without sailng, I sailed past your comforting form
shimmering in the seeming untouchable distance,
a treacherous unfeeling wall of ice between us.
A large lenticular mustache of meaning
hovering gently over you hid the smile that
told me you were smiling back.
I was cold and detached like the icy wind that
filled the sails fluttering above as
my spectral shadow and i sailed reverently by
on life’s limey iridescent currents.
You were remote in those days,
unfuckable but enjoyable in a romantic spiritual sort of way.
Life was beautiful then. She fed my longing,
always a vulgar greedy drooling mouth.
Without a speck of evidence I believed she
would feed my nostalgia forever.
But I was wrong.
One fine day, the sailing, the longing and
my tangible fuckable self changed places.
It was magic; I had nothing to do with it.
There I was smiling behind my mustache
as those two rotting humble corpses sailed off to
hunt some walrusy worldly dream.
Imagine that.
