Walking away from the mountain,
That haven of certainty
That you once had given me,
And now has been covered in
Malign mists and rainy doubts,
Gathering like a cold and dense
Creating a vicious volcano
And turning this long-standing haven
Into a misty mountaintop of madness.
No call from any creature
Could make my hair stand on end,
In as much as a single glance
Upon that loathesome mountain of doom,
Of self-fulfilling disaster,
My own private Ragnarok
I'm now trying to escape.
I stumble and fall.
Thorny bushes bruise and scratch
All marked with the tenacity
And the voracity
Of this unremitting urge
To turn around,
Climb that horrible hillside and