The Flame on the Mount

Stones like razor-pens,
Jut, like poorly chosen words,
From the hill that folds in geometries alien to men,
Complexity beyond our ken, yet we must ascend,
Inked in our blood, salinity lending a certain gravity
To my red-scrivened history. And though I can see my goal,
and It’s cinders singe my skin,
The gibbering weights,
Like trivial fears, and inanity,
Slow my ascent to the point of insanity
Making my labour Sisyphean,
Though my intent be Promethean,
And the climb seems never ending;