The Writers' Circle

The mountain's face was purple with rage
And his hair as sharp as teeth,
I think he'd lost his fingers
In a battle with a thief.

He stared at me with unwanting eyes,
I found myself looking back,
I turned around to let him be,
And strode away into the black. 

But there was something about the mountain,
That was quiet and very still,
He was like a solitary soldier,
Writing this poem by ink and quill.