Even the fine faces
of the mountains rival madness;
their eyes a carbon copy of
a cold, cosmic canopy.
But for you, faces are nothing but
the primeval prime evil—
the source of thoughtless thought,
the brook of careless cares.
And through deserts and dry creeks,
and strained irises, stained cheeks,
the fine-faced mountain pays
homage to houses hewn.
But faces are what faces could
endure, and thus, as faces would
remember each wrinkle at its best
with eyes shut tight, as well they should.
— A. P.
*Being a response to Day 2 of dailypost‘s “Intro. to Poetry” course; to write about faces, with focus on alliteration.