A pitched peak

A pitched peak
is standing there
reflecting sky
with none to spare,
ominous pesterings
and burgeoning shades
of coloured glass
are festering there;
sequestering in
a corner cold
of clear, dead, blue, dead
ice, death skins of old.
Insipid sky
reaching fingers forth
to hide the peak
from villains' froth
and Heaven's keep.
A stay in Tartarus
where gods can't seek
from all of us,
to house the peak,
keeping it
in isolation
to prevent its
imminent decimation
at the hands of
kings and crowns
and bands of
hunters seeking desolation.
But none may move
the solemn peak
as it shall prove
with sky's reap.