I wander through the lonely lands, surrounded by the deceived. All of them alone, filling their time with company.
There’s only ever a road, a path to wander taking all from life to death. And on the way the wonders come and go whose echoes might remain.
And on that far horizon I see before me proud, the clouds so thick and tall and dark that they could only ever be something else.
I wander my path to find a way to get toward those clouds, for I know a truth from far beyond that’s hidden in plainest sight.
Those are not clouds which hold the rain, which darken the skies above, but mountains made of mist to climb, to rise above the dark.
And far above the dark below the sun will kiss the peaks.
For there the sun itself will bow for what lives high above.
The realm of Gods and greater beings who live upon the clouds, the mountains of the sky which float to show the world for their inspection.
And maybe it is futile for a man to wish to climb, but up those mountains of mist I will go to one day see up high.
Perhaps toward my own demise I will look down on the world, but for a moment in which I’ve climbed I’ll have been among the Gods.