How life comes together, how things fall apart.
The world today will have her say when rubble is modern art.
And we’ll fade away, once it’s nothing like today.
And the world will forgive us our transgressions, this I pray.
The child is grown, they are far from skipping stones,
And they know it is their destiny to reign without a throne
As best they can, and it’s done without a plan.
Such is the lot that they have got, this orphan child of man.
Ghosts passing by, as if birds just overhead.
It’s they who’ve heard the whispered word of that which can’t be said.
And if held still, the windy whisper grows,
But no one cares to heed the air as thoughts there decompose
One needs an ear, but to hear the wind, her song
As she recedes into the weeds of shadow where she belongs.
And though I try to know the wisdom of decay,
The more I write of fungal light the more I bleach away.
The sky is wide, a blanket for the ground:
Untouched and cold and simply old as stone that’s earthly drowned.
With thunderous touch does she make her presence known.
From within a shroud of darkened cloud, she waters what was sown.
Hands to hold, and smiles wide,
And hair that’s smelled and bodies held in teary-eyed goodbyes
All washed away, and plucked clean among the grains
But don’t lament: it won’t prevent the coming of soft rains
There comes an end, and it’s to be why’d and sighed
By the many none who are not done and’ve died unsatisfied
That must be us, and our shadows, how they’re splayed
By tasks we’ll never do and by choices left unmade.