Neon River Through the Silent Mountains

A neon river sings through sleeping mountain air, It threads the violet dusk with bright magnetic fire. Small pilgrims made of light step softly without care, And leave behind a trail that never seems to tire. The ridges breathe in blues, in lavender they fade, While stardust drifts like ash from some celestial bloom. Each pulse becomes a path, a shimmering bright braid, That leads the patient heart beyond the gathered gloom.