Chalk dreams

Written on rough
concrete, begging for
repair,
groaning with the stress
of elder trees whose roots
have been growing since
the sidewalk was merely a
distant blueprint

each letter takes form,
the energy drains into
slate-colored tiles

the off-white substance,
once as long as an old man’s
weathered hands
grows smaller and humbler
until there is nothing left

but dreams and aspirations
waiting for the infrequent rainstorm
to wash it all away

One day

Perhaps one day
fog breaks
to bring forth sunbeams
eagerly queueing behind
slate-grey veils
instead of naked judgement
cutting a path
with fire and shattering force

Will, one day in the distant future
when my body has decayed
to feed a cypress tree
overlooking the churning, roiling surf
one day,
will those that find the Earth
as my kind bequeathed,
flaws and all
discover in a meadow
of overpowering green
the last of the rusted rifles
that we once used to commit
societal suicide

One day, will “one day”
cease to be an idea

and become
one day.

The pine-box forest

Thanks to human apathy
green-gray vines
grow with impunity

here lies the pine-box forest
each specimen assembled from
copses, large and small,
their origins many
their final place the same

here lies the pine-box forest
contained within –
forlorn, ecstatic
rageful, placid
pleasure, pain,
that feeling, as if you
flew above the world
soaring, effortless
the earth itself within reach

here lies the pine-box forest
where we find one rare piece
of common ground

Unchanging, a fiction

Monuments turn to ruins
Each chiseled stone covered
with weeds, woven
in time, nature always triumphs
its children grounded
for breaking curfew

Cities rise, thrive, fall, rot
under a Sun that
in time
fade into quiet insignificance

Earth, unchanging
a fiction
for Time plays its
symphony not for humans
its notes too few and deep
in a lifetime.

Tongues forget

The last rune
traveled through time and
decay
lays, scarlet on limestone
witness to horrors
turned heroic
for that is what victors proclaim

A tale triumphed
over starboard bow
to those ignorant
of its glory

Each season’s turn
tongues forget
or their owners come
to reside
in earthen mounds
facing an obsidian sea

all that is left
is mystery.