Alone on a pinnacle
When the thunder rumbles,
His wavering spirit
Desire becomes forlorn.
His legs stammer and tremble,
Stiffening nigh like lead.
Though thunder is never seen;
The woes are in his head-
As his path is one well-worn.
The thunder is a scapegoat;
Or a mirage rather,
Conjured by a troubled mind
So the peak seems farther,
Though it is the same each morn.
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Comments about this poem (Thunder by Jack Growden )
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