The Crowded Summit

The trophies line the heavy wooden shelf, A golden testament to battles won. He conquered mountains, reinvented self, And chased the horizon till the day was done. The world applauds the builder of the dream, The sharp architect of the grand design, Yet fabric tears apart at every seam When midnight blurs the celebratory line. He stands atop the peak he fought to claim, With heavy armor and a hollow chest. A thousand voices call out to his name, Yet not a single soul knows him the best. The accolades are echoes in the dark, A brilliant blaze that leaves a sudden chill, For what is fire without a kindred spark? And what is victory when the room is still? He wears success just like a heavy crown, That bows the head and isolates the mind. The higher up he climbs above the town, The further drops the warmth he left behind. An empty anchor in a sea of praise, He looks ahead, but only feels the fall— A quiet boy inside a golden maze, Who conquered everything, yet misses all.