I will stay with you,
Even when the times are hard,
We can make stone soup.

I think my heart might be made of stone,
It's durable, but often pieces of it crumble away.
It sparkles with crystals,
The remnants of happy memories.
It's cold to the touch,
After all, rock is heat resistant.
But that's not the greatest,
For I can't feel the warm fingers of love.

The mason works the living stone
to shape it for its slotted place.
Pale flakes of rock fly as he hones
it to a rough-hewn sandstone face.

With chisel and mallet in granite hands
and flinty grey eyes to plumb the line,
the rock gives way in grains of sand.
He chips and flicks one blow at a time.

His fingers trace each pit and dell
that he’d worked in with his iron tools,
while nostrils fill with chalky smell —
light dust clouds through his workshop move.

As one by one his blocks are laid
by his apprentice at his side
to fill the role for which they’re made:
they’ll be joined in one more arch of pride.

More arches form as months move past
then building up to many a year:
They mark the time of a life well cast,
his mason’s mark left on each stone sheer.

Each arch arises, pointing high
to the master mason of us all,
who carves and fits in his workshop sky —
by shaping, marking us in his wall.

Then piece by piece, the church takes shape
while grains of sand from worked stones fall;
The mason, now old, his final finial makes
as falling sand an hourglass recalls.

And here I stand in centuries hence
to spot the mason’s mark he left behind,
his arches pointing upwards whence
the mason built his final shrine.

Their names and
Story are lost
To time but
They clearly meant
The world to someone

There is a boulder

in the middle of the road --


there is a boulder.

Are you of perfect
Circumference for
A captain in the sky
Voyaging vagabond at night 'til morn'

Walking under the
End of season elms and sycamores
The branches as oars in water
Tilling below shadows come, shadows go, as you stay steady
For I was the water in a rippling stream and you were a solitary sturdy force above
Emulating my gait and gaze

Light hanging with every branch
Into my water
As you lay your supermoon
Beam into our futures
Until you come  again
Leaving your soup of hope in Everything you touched
Even souls

Where will the future be at your return
With hate or love,
Or something in between as a sturdy captain should, be there once more for all the visitors below
Beseeching you for navigation
From on high to below
Altruistic by sight, your perfect shaped stone in the dark of night

I feel forgotten,
I feel lost,
I feel the rotten,
Burning cost
I had to pay
When I lost faith
In the rock
That held me still.
Blade pierced my bones,
My foe reproached
Dailily unto me
“Where is thy god?
Why cast ye down?
What of disquiet in the?”
Atop the sands
Lean on my hands
And begin my ascent to the surface.
“A valid question,
My soul, my friend.
I suppose I lost my purpose.”