Who was it carved these lines
In ancient hand
Faded now
By sand and wind
And patient Time?
Whose voice on chiseled stone
calls on to us
Covered now
With mossy virtues
Lost, unknown?
Should I now in my crewel
of saddened heart
And remorse
Add a stitch
Of love eschewed?
Should I wield stick and stone
And worry down
into this rock
My ****** tale
Of love unknown?
And ages hence, some thousand years
when this creekbed
sits up high
Will some fellow
read my tears?
No. I will let my fingers roam
these runic forms
Singing loud
The loss we shared
Beside this stone.
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 5:45 PM UTC
Who was it carved these lines
In ancient hand
Faded now
By sand and wind
And patient Time?
Whose voice on chiseled stone
calls on to us
Covered now
With mossy virtues
Lost, unknown?
Should I now in my crewel
of saddened heart
And remorse
Add a stitch
Of love eschewed?
Should I wield stick and stone
And worry down
into this rock
My ****** tale
Of love unknown?
And ages hence, some thousand years
when this creekbed
sits up high
Will some fellow
read my tears?
No. I will let my fingers roam
these runic forms
Singing loud
The loss we shared
Beside this stone.
copyright 2011 T.P. Mooney