The Summit by Danielle Que

(this is a poem that I dedicate for the Mount Everest climber David Sharp who died while descending from the summit. He was still alive but barely moving and 40 climbers had passed him by without even helping him.)

The Summit (David Sharp 1972 - 2006) by Danielle Que

Here, rested his dome-shaped ice
My days gone by, without air
As footsteps slowly ahead rise
Of my ill fated dream and fair

It was souls, not flesh and meat
Descended along rocky sides
High above my freezing fleet
It froze and was eaten by tides

Here I am, sleeping, but alive
Sit here though, he slowly dies
Go on further, never the pride
As I slowly paid the algid price

Those who have forgotten near
And those who continued on
Those voices I warmly hear
As his loneliness had me done

Gone were the days I miss
As I lay here on your beauty
Hoping for your fevered kiss
My hands frostbitten and empty.

Holy Person

Sainthood: Virtues of Summer by Danielle Que
 
  Amongst the crowd art tallt thy virtues of summer, 
Sat ardent above Faith, conforming thy disoriented blander
One, sadly, did not though, instead looked upon me yonder
Regally glared at me I hope not. Contemptous, contending and sober
Love not hate, malice nor dislike, yet  a docile one, yes, love.  
Honned thy fardest throttlehold army, a dearest virtue to me
Which youngsters from my town seek love from thee
Do find, that virtue that looked upon me, 
Standing still, I smiled, frolicked about agast prayers undone
My sainthood, My virtues, except one.