Prelude :
A tilde, a rose
A mark of rising
It is on the west
Spine of a diagonal kind
It runs through the streets
Ellipsis of a rigid fabric
It is etched in a silent wool
Spiders diced up and running
Sans web, Sans sunshine
Dried up poisons, dreadful twigs
A visceral life, unfolds in the fork
A minuscule breath, fumes in a desert chest
Nothing to flow, nothing to ebb and elk
Every sky is ripe for a retreat to the mountain
A mountain that spins unto its last
Eclectic :
Height of madness
Hitherto humid and hue
Has a hive to loss
It is neither a beehive nor a volcano
it is just a mountain than spins to exist
It is just a mountain that declines to mourn
Quite inclined to the west wind
It spins past its fiddling valleys
Spinning is an art of vultures
Who watches him from flattened hilltops
Spinning is a defense of the weak
Who can’t burn the chest and break the bones
Spinning is a science of magnets
Who love to pursue polar origins
This mountain spins from its peak
This mountain had a pagan past
When it cherished the prairie flocks
To clear its fuming peaks
Every mountain has a choice
Either to erupt in volcanic genres
Or to spin forever in gyrations
Epilogue :
Death of opinions, dearth of wickedness
Deep down the valleys, docked in yards
Thus the soiled giant was shaken to freeze
None to flock, none to flower, valleys were mute
Mountain was gazing its tilting future
It was slopping and hopping in time
It could sense its clock stopping to gyrate
It could sense its vibrant peaks edging out of time
It was gracious enough not to fall on the chest of its valleys
It could just flatten, flatten and flatten its pinnacles
Loving the valley till the end, it ended up being a hamlet
Wretched and howling, muted and minced
Diced and winking, shivering and crushed
It was just a hamlet, in the center of gravity
And the coming generations will never believe
A spinning mountain ever existed
Neither have it sprout again