There was an individual
who, statistically, was a very high residual.
Unexpected he was; no one could plan for him.
His curiosity made him yearn to go out on a limb.
So we begin.
Yet then he was also fearful and for good reason.
And thus we abruptly end.
For nobody-NOBODY-was to pass that damn hill crest.
Proudly and tall it separated the rest of what's left
of what humanity could see.
It shouldn't be he'd think.
We weren't born that way.
Now our man
-whose name was Cyrus McKay-
had so many other crests looming over him that he couldn't say
even though they were obviously there, nay.
To acknowledge them would add burden to the weight.
So he either cowered low under the hills in silence
or approached them in hate.
Now one of these hills that watched over him, taunting him incessantly
was not necesarilly
so apparently clear in explaining
why it wasn't crossed over as of yet.
Because you can't forget
that Cyrus was wealthy and attractive and never did lie.
So why
would he never find a marriage and subsequently a story's life?
The answer lies in fear,
his mortal sin-the basis for all things.
It was this that grinded the gears
of the machine of perpetual avoidance, avoidance of the ring.
For any twinge of intimacy
would require interpersonal relation
which would then mandate a self-awareness.
And for him, self-awareness was self-defeating.
Thus he was never meeting
the hill crests of lovers that towered glaringly
over top him, begging him as he was greeting
woman after woman for short meaningless nights
then taking these incidences
and wrapping them away and sealing them tight
away from his memory.
His second type of hill crest
beyond the first that was guarded by continual distraction
was another one
that hid not his self-awareness but
awareness of his world.
It was strange that there was
beyond doubt, plentiful water in the lands above
while the city down under was prostrated in drought.
Yet the land's king forbid them from going up there
and all the citizens-including Cyrus-obliged lest they were to tear
themselves apart.
For to be above
would be to contemplate what's below.
Just as to be in love
is to contemplate one's self
So he just laid on the lowest shelf
never venturing to the lands above,
a sitting dove,
never pursuing knowledge or water or love
in fear of seeing what he himself
and they themselves
were made of.
50 years from being a young man
and Cyrus was near dead
laying in bed
alone, terribly alone, but to his wishes, unknowing
he was residing.
But luckily, in exquisite and comfortable habitation
he did reside.
But looking high above the hill crest, he couldn't help but ask:
"What's on the other side?"
He didn't find out.
There was no time.
