If I Were a Poet

Some say with greater effort
comes greater glory.
My faith in this wavers
as we lose count of our steps
with the summit still far above.
Now, night falls,
and the ghostly glow
of towns below
greets us from unthinkable distance
as if to say that even here,
in this thin fog and air,
light was born before us,
survives long afterward,
and leaves no trace behind.
In quiet homes tonight
they sleep with their own
dreams that far outshine
a foolish quest
to stand atop a rock
and pound our fists
against the sky.
In their dreams, they pray.
They pray for
food, a bed, a roof,
and, God willing,
tomorrow another glorious day.