I promised you those many seasons ago
that I would not give up my vigil.
Tall and statuesque, like some ancient marble
crafted to protect the gateway to your temple,
I gaze into the distant future awaiting your coming.
My heart leaping at every trick of the eye
cracks the surface of this decrepit tomb
and fissures spread from the stone core;
remnants of my soul seep into the chill winter air.
In impatient agony I writhe and shake.
My efforts, seemingly futile at first,
soon send slivers of shale plummeting to the earth below.
There they rest dissipating to dust; a symbol of what is to be.
Wailing like a man in a madhouse;
my screams find no sympathy.
The voice that once sounded for you,
triumphant in return, gives way to ache.
Where is my lord now?
Why will he not witness my dying spirit?