Once I climbed a mountain,

and the mountain spoke to me.

"My peaks are steep;

my valleys, low;

my paths, treacherous.

I've seen you tread on steady lands,

with no whimsy pebbles underfoot.

What brings you to my presence, young one?

Why do you challenge that which cannot protect you?

Why do you seek out that which will destroy you?"

and I awoke with these words ringing in my ears.

In my dream, the following night,

I lay at the bottom of a cliff face,

jagged rocks protruding from my chest.

The whites of my eyes had conquered,

my face blanketed in innocence.

Blood drenched my tattered clothes,

and the mountain loomed over me.

The mountain sang a chilling tune,

my skin prickled, and tingled,

and soon it came loose.

It fell from my shoulders.

It dropped from my hips.

The outcast organ lay in heaps,

surrounding my rotting remains like an ill-fitting blanket.

The nights grew cold and short,

the mountain's voice grew deeper.

The crimson stains continued spreading,

and as it fell, the fresh snow found itself plagued with haunted demons.

The mountain's song rang out,

a soulless, mellow harmony.

My muscles lost their tension,

weak from inactivity.

My figure found decay.

Maggots bore homes inside of me.

My eye sockets became a parlor,

my rib cage, their den.

The nights grew warmer, longer;

the mountain's breath drew silent.

The sand beneath my body denied the life,

draining from my corpse.

My ghost trailed from grain to grain,

begging for an eternal home to rest.

Once I climbed a mountain,

and the mountain spoke to me.

Were that once I could awaken,

one day the mountain's song might deliver me to my grave.