ALPINE HEATHER

There is this mountain,
a gigantic peak in my head.

It's summit is often concealed by dense cloud
that relentlessly seeks to devour it.

Halfway up
there is a moss covered ledge

where I sit alone
in all weathers, all seasons -

a ritual of defiance
against bleak melancholy.

I forged you from the elements.
I breathed life into cold stone

that I knew would never return my love.
I took your indifference,

your cold rejection,
and cast it into the raging winds

like a restless spirit -
the howling, a Banshee in the dark.

I am all delusion,
all granite.

Like alpine heather in the wind,
I'm victim of my own resilience:

dying of a battered heart,
yet disgustingly, sickeningly, immortal.