Valleys.

At foothills, tension builds,
somewhat grey,
sudden displeasure, as her hands sashay.
They break within, therein, they hide,
and as I'd guide, she would step aside.
Inside, her blood would thicken,
and I'd hardly take note, let alone listen,
as once thriven, we assume the conifer lifeless,
immune to tunes, a rubber ball of stress.
A landslide! we run down the narrow lanes,
streets of fortitude, inexplicable delays,
for tumultuous minutes deride ignorance,
the vacuum gets buried, borrowed innocence;
now the climb gets harsh, unpleasant,
of what I could and she wouldn't.

So we muster strength, pretending to make it through,
unaware, disremembering each n' every excuse.
It hurts, and the soldiers slowly leave,
she spins around, caressing my sleeves;
now that's all left when ardor quiets, at last,
we'd riot it out, eschewing upon the past.
In time, ascension regains stride,
and we deride,
to only succumb again.

In vain, triumph pales
as these dying hills disregard
inch by inch and yard by...