Two Long Sentences Poem by Lucas German

Peaks jut jagged from dramatic landscapes; interest nexuses where tectonic plates of foundational material converge in an upheaval, drawing bedrock and molten mantle alike towards a breath of un-sulfured air and beyond perhaps even to the atmosphere's failing height at the border of earth and the silent wailing night. Girded all around by a rolling opacity ocean, such raw earth towers offer a viewpoint not had from any brick-laid bower, though not a bed for the head, just a downward slope to carry the dead back to ground and eventually be found by the next expedition with a suicide mission to the top of Mt. Danger, where you do well to trust a stranger who knows some rich vein must be exposed; indeed one through which liquid gold flowed, drawing an eventual army of weary workers long ready to risk what's left, or perhaps just thinking themselves deft and dextrous enough to reach the summit while passing each previous unplanned plummet.