Under the Flaring Nostrils of a Delinquent Dreamer

Some place slightly out of touch is the place where the passion brings the dusk
On the other side of a sealed door a mountain waits unanswered
The challenger throws up his gear and scales the face,
And shreds the hills and demands a place,
Upon his imminent return.
Some time later on the same ole same ole smoky little hill,
The doors remain unhindered rusting away just the same,
And the challenger still continues his trek onward,
But he will not make it all the way there,
No there is but naught to be done,
Try as he may and he truly shall,
Tomorrow will not come,
Not for him,
Not for I,
Or you.
Still he'll try it,
The door always ready to be tried,
Just the task of making it all the way to the end,
Just the road that must be traversed waiting to be trodden,
Just this matter of commiting a ritual suicide, just as easy as pulling out a single cigarette,
He scales the mountain his climbing axe punctuaring the side so swift and brutally,
It is a strange wonder that the mountain does not spew out a fountain of blood,
The ruby jewel of life from the inner workings of the challengers throat,
But alas it will not be, he cuts into rock easier than he woudl cut flesh,
And all his blows are pinpoint precise and deep,
Again he thrusts his axe forward and connects,
Again he finds a place to put a foothold,
Against the wind he transcends,
But he does not open the door.
It is a boy some time later,
Who is of little consequence to this scene, who makes his way up the mountain side, but then goes horizontally forward, and not skyward in this challengers vertical fashion,
It is this child who opens the door,
Because he was simple enough to look under his nose,
Enlightenment is not in the heavens,
It is in the mountain,
Through that which is here,
If you look inbetween the crevices,
You'll see it,
Right there.