White Pinnacle of Pain

Everest, standing tall, cold driven misery assaulting those assaulting the peak.
Jagged, razor lottery, chance to destroy those driven.
Success for some, death for many

Warmer now, distance far from the beginning, moonlight shows the time.
What is time?
Why fight it?
Questions answered by those winning, those assaulted, those trying.

Centuries ago, home soil cast on casket, hiding what cannot, nor would not, be hidden.
Heart as cold as ice, as a force, stopped beating.
His faith in God diminished or strengthened, his domain now the blanket of night, worm, whispering beginnings.
Cursed or blessed with motion eternal, lifeless yet possessing life, as I said, his beginning.

Vrykolakas was my mother, my father, son of Eve, my curse was to curse me, beginning.
What time is it now?
Why fight it?
It is my time.

Lifting soil, lifting lid, lifting of spirit, we both lifted, one of us will die.
He with his fate, I with my knowledge. Why fight it? I will try.
He is coming now, our souls have touched. He is coming now, one of us will die.

Shadow of mountain shows bright in the moon. Jagged, razor lottery, chance to destroy those driven.
Communion of passions, his with his, I with mine.
With flaring of fang, eyes black and wide, he struck with his, and I with mine.

My blood is long cold, his, as dry ice.
Slashing and hacking, yes, it was our time.
Who is winning, who will die?

A mountain exists, yet a mountain will die.
We both fought the battle as we both lost our lives.
With darkness fading, light in the air, the mountain shadow showed nothing.

Climber has fallen, joined with the stone.
His fangs have fallen, through and through.
My knowledge though, very thourough, set fate in stone.

Two of death joined this day, it was fate, it was time.
Two joined in beginning, as one will we try.
Oh mortal man, you think to be safe in the day?
We both now are one, creatures of night and the day. To you we go seeking, to you we prey.
Pray to your God, say what you will say.
What time is it?
Why fight it?
Just wait, you will see.

Robin B. Lipinski claims to be addicted to writing. It helps that his good dreams are other people's nightmares. There is not much to know about him other than he shares this planet with you and others.

Find more by Robin B. Lipinski in the Author Index.

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