In white stones
That can be palmed in the ascent
to shift fortune, or the perception of it
Beneath the shadows of black cloth
That roll through mentality
In the palace of a king
The shards of self are made whole
What stays are the vignettes
In the aviary of an emperor
We are honored, in our way
As the carpets of lichen reach across every surface
The tracks of cloven animals trampled the land
With such distinction
the memory lives in the soil
Like approaching thunder.
crest the landslide
Become the avalanche
my soul is the cactus that summit
and the broken bones in the gorge below.
And all of the rawness,
that lingers like the dust of another era
How the machinery of man has failed us
In the theaters of choosing
They lay as the bones of great pasts
Strewn about the landscape as the wreckage of other
mindframes.
It is in the broken stones we are made immortal.
In the shedding power
We are but a note in the chorus of spring.
