Fingertips
I remember standing
on top of a mountain,
like some ancient god
with world beneath me.
The splendour and the sorrow
stretched out at my fingertips.
Able to grant great beauty
or to grant great sorrow
with the touch of a fingertip.
On this plateau,
cool air encircled me
and I smiled to my self,
as I stood alone for a moment
able to touch the heavens
with my fingertips.
16 February 2011
poem by David Harris
Added by Poetry Lover
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