Of Concrete from Sand

Brought down the cobwebs and around twisted bends,
set a camp on one end and fed the spider stories,
it was like reading faces through a shaped diamond,
pretty but missing the captivated feature.

As the whistling tore into my peripheral hearing,
as I bent over to avoid the thoughts streaming through my head,
as manifold sounds gave way to only one,
I hid my face as if to render myself invisible.

It's hard to realize that for all the view that a mountain top offers,
there's far more basement real estate for safe huddling,
and that the slightest beckon is easier to deny than receive,
can anyone read my mind when I write on the inside of my head?