The Next Mountain Poem by Procyon Mukherjee

I am on a traipse

With a bare feet that is brushing
Hard rocks and stones in the pass
Of a windy void left by the eruptions, one too many

Rivers are winding their descent
Silently knocking against the whims of the rising expectations
Like an arrow from the quilt that has exhausted its use

One side of this mountain is green
The other side with a rough exterior
Exposes me while I am imposed
In the celebration of some small things

I made on my own, Or I missed,
I failed so many times
But I was still part
Of the making

Of a Journey, the reward
To this next mountain
Is pressing against my face
Like ice needles, packed with the
Misty cover that the forest draws unto the unknown

Some links can never be broken