Timothy McLarney

The standing hills stretch innumerable expanses, 

braving scolding breezes and the woods’ perilous chances.

The standing hills remain cruel and callous,

indifferent to passerbys’ demise, though, without malice.


The standing hills, bugs’ skyscrapers and giants’ mounds,

wild with valleys and rivers as its immeasurable beauty confounds.

The standing hills have no conflict, argument, or scene;

there is only nature; a sight unmoving, serene.


The standing hills, where myriad species lie,

oft’ sing their silent lullaby.

The standing hills, a world uncaring;

far from civility, a society unbearing.


The standing hills, adorned with lofty peaks,

where a traveler wrought with ambition seeks.

The standing hills mold the minds of devout souls.

They offer completion; the means to one’s goals.


The standing hills, witness to humanity’s end,

remain and wait still, watching another genus transcend.

The standing hills, whose slopes fall upon the Earth;

the seats of Gods, spectating onward with mirth.


The standing hills, so long unchanged,

brings to us meaning; our lives estranged.

The standing hills, in having no service,

suggest, perhaps, a lack of purpose.