Freed from these old bonds
I stretch my fingers
(in order that I scrape the sky)
And plunge, headfirst into
the still heaving earth.
My time is fleeting, here and gone,
But this mark will keep.

If not a monument then
I will become a stain.
An oil spot perhaps.
They will point at it
sitting there on the unmarked ground,
and marvel at the odd shape
it, I, had pooled into.

I will shake a nation,
If that is what it will take.
I will grow out my nails
and carve my initials
into the face of this living rock.
Pushing back the guise
that forever labels me;
"Temporary."

In my hour, waiting to see
if the gates will come, I will long
to feel your gentle knuckles
stroke my weakened cheek.
"You mattered, old friend.
They will not forget."