The Summit of Mountains

Alone, unattended though unforgotten
upon Everest on K2.
Or at anyplace,
where the mists of mountains flew.
There lies many a monument,
for souls and bodies left frozen askew.
The price paid most often,
for the ambition that mountain peaks does drew.

Mounds of frosted rocks,
adorned by plaques, medals and wooden carved letters.
A reminder of tales of that frightful fever,
that gripped the hearts of many a mountaineer.
To summit upon a top,
oh! the ecstasy it gives so sheer.
That death and dismemberment,
a price most thought to be in fair exchequer.

What puzzling rites does this action grants,
that simple stepping of a foot upon elevated grounds.
That draws thousands to their deaths,
or at least to life most difficult measured in months.
To suffer in altitudes above a thousand,
to slowly die in body feeding the ambitions of the mind.
What grace does this beckons,
for the abandonment of sanity and warmer climes.

But all in all in the face of history,
of Tensing and Hillary we will remember to posterity.
Those who were first,
to taste of Everest's majesty.
Such is perhaps the prize of victory,
to be there and to taste of its momentous glory.
Not much perhaps is the allure of publicity,
as to the satisfaction of summiting the peaks personally.

A fever it is a flight of fancy,
this dream to tread upon grounds most unattained.
But it is a pattern as to human progeny,
to seek and desire the most unreachable of terrain.
Though one can only wonder,
I can definitely say for certain.
That I will see in memorium more names on metals and wooden,
laid below... the summit of mountains.

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