I view valley from a pinnacle of arrogance, A clinical inheritance, a cynical deliverance. You babble in sediment, I balance on precipice, Shattering the evidence of any hollow excellence. See, your posture is forgery, a glossy little mockery, Watching periphery with hostile reciprocity. You strut like youโre a sovereign, I gag at how youโre groveling, Stagnant water covering jagged truth youโre smothering. Iโm poisoning atmosphere, youโre frozen in massive fear, Choice is getting vastly clear: thereโs nothing for classes here. Iโm judging every specimen, a grudge against lesser men, Tugging on tether when you stumble in the mess again. Your stance is weak โ one glance from the peak turns you pale. The lostโll all fail when mountain spirit speaks. You rattle the cage, Iโm the end of the rope, The deadening of hope, for your shattered-up rage. I bait the elite, they fall on the blade, The call is delayed, for the fate of the cheat. I scuttle the ship, keep eyes on the prize, The rise of the lies, till the uttermost slip. My discipline is surgical, my vertical is literal, Spirit is ritual that turns lyrical visceral. I pity every amateur who thinks heโs a challenger, Damaging character and breaking every parameter. Iโm peeling every layer back to find hollow center, Cold and heavy winter for prideful who would enter. Iโm arrogance personified, a monarch in freezing air, The roots of all your vanity are stripped until the reasonโs bare. I test the very fabric of your desperate bravado, Mess with every habit with a deathless staccato. My loathing is fetter, cold iron in my temper, The mere tip of my feather leaves boldest on their knees and in a tremor. Look in the glass, Iโm hooked on the mask, booking the task, While Iโm taking the craft from the crooked and brash. Piercing the veil, Iโm fierce and Iโm frail, certain to fail, Merciless gale โ the worthless and stale get thrown off the trail. I mock what I mimic, the shock is a gimmick, Iโm locked in the theater, watching leader get knocked by the meter. I hate what I see, but Iโm slated to be, The weight of decree and the fate that I foresee. The mountain peak is a lonely place to be. That mounting pique left a longing piece of me. Atmosphere is thinning, Iโm the hollow in the winning, A sanctimonious spinning since agonyโs beginning. I loathe the very ground and Iโm alone in the clouds, Round after round, surrounded by voices of doubt that pound Loud in my head โ no victor on this battleground. No victory horn resounds. My superiority hardened, no purity or pardon, A risk-starved warden in a dead and icy garden. I climbed until I froze, now I thrive among the snows, But nobody really knows where lonely spirit goes. At the edge of a yawning fissure, one only I can measure, I was looking for some pleasure, but there was no hidden treasure. High enough to despise, dry enough to be wise, Iโm locked inside the prize of my own deceptive rise. The summit is a cell. Silence is the only thing I have left to tell.
