O soft speaking stones frustrated by time,
Show me the gentle hand encased in frigid stone.
O Green-plagued, yellow-speckled face, your searching soul
Seeping with ancient golden whisperings: show me wonder
In each shadowy canto, in eternal breaths that flow
Into fathomless pores of grey-withered arches that grow
And spiral deeper and deeper, that grow
And fuse with the black sapphire heart of time;
Bounded and bare, stuck in cosmic ebb and flow.
Are you able to stretch your thoughts of stone
Through this star-scattered veil, this mesh of wonder
And find at the depth of your cognitive cavern a private soul?
The infinite space between creation and soul,
Incanting moss adulterates your skin as you grow
Further and further, deeper and deeper from the first musing wonder
Of your soon-bereaved creator knowing that in time,
You, not strictly mortal, shall crumble to boundless stone;
Perhaps, in that sempiternal sleep, you are free to flow
And find the amorphous-lustre of nature's eyes, maybe in dark wonder
You will view this somatic cavity, poles apart from the desperate flow
Of mossy-coloured emotions. My dear, look what rude time
Has done to you; what is the void that invaded your soul?
That walked down your cinnabar-stairs to grow
In your aching, moribund stone?
We are all marooned, fledglings cast in stone,
Aimlessly stumbling in an endless cavern full of frightful wonder,
Connecting nothing with nothing as we venture down intramural stairs that grow
And spiral and convulse and gyre and flow
Deeper until we look back and see the sky cradling a blue-eyed soul,
Hearing echoes from the top of the mossy cadaver, singing softer sounds of a distant time.
This Stone in your chest, not far from the flow
Of smooth-skinned wonder, the cadence of soul,
Will grow to be a mere shade of gushing time.
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