Mount Marcy by Matthew Milia

Mount Marcy is growing sparse
She is the farce that I would like to tell
From the bottom of your well

Feel the bushes, brambles rambling
Ample sapling, suckling all the air
And the north from Marcy’s hair

When my death-day comes
When my death-day numbs me
I shall become one
I shall become nothing
And something
Something is the heaven-king for me

Your crucifixion-three-large-hills are
Shadow-making over stilts we built
On the mountain’s silt

Marcy, you’re my favorite love
Seventeen and freckled like a soul
To forget you would be so
Hard on me
Hard on me to cut you from my dream-range

But we shall become one
We shall become nothing
And something
That something is the heaven-king for me

Birds are chirping, you’re usurping
Things that I would never want to tell
From the top of your landfill

Workers smoking, all evoking
Western counties, full of filth and love
To which you’re bound above

When my death-day comes
For certain, I’ll be sorry
For all that I have done indoors
When outside sons were shining
They are blinding, binding
Reminding me the heaven-king is one

Appears on The Orion Songbook