The mountains are calling me
But you just see crimson play
And I’m falling in electric dust
There isn’t much else, is there?
Father, lend me a hand
There’s no emergency sign
No matter what I throw over the wall
Or my tally marks in white
There’s no transmission
And no one is awake anymore
No one can mend my eyes
What happened to endless sound
cutting into the rough of our spirit?
There’s nothing to understand
It’s all over the edge
Everything is just fine; it’s OK
Only pipers pay the penance
Ropes and chains and paper planes
Cracks and faint light
And the transmission isn’t going through
Fury and meaning but I don’t know
If the mountains are calling my name
Melanie Falconer is a freelance writer and editor living in Los Angeles, California. Her writing mainly concerns philosophy, personal experiences, cultural commentary, and her love of the visual and performing arts. If you’d like to reach out to her, you can do so here.