A home of wood, both small and still, found deep in the woods by lake or hill.

Giant scars, born over a milinnia. Jagged rock faces against a deserted backdrop, best watch your step here, or you'll be dead, full stop.

Oceans of golden waves Rippling with the touch of wind Up above, a cornflower blue sky Not a cloud to be seen Until a distinct scent of ozone permeates the air Within moments, the summer storm blooms Bruised purples and stormy greens Rain pelts the flat land below

You've made it, the summit, you're at the top. I'm the apex, the peak, so you have to stop. Whether a mountain or career, The only way is down, when you're here.

Tourists climb me, yet bare feet hate me.