who can say who we are

this dark amalgam of shadowy experiences

is distant from our true north

it may be impossible for someone searching

to find what they are looking for

the will required, is rarely willing

and when it breaks weakness, it’s frightening

for one figures out, who they are

different from who they were

we change

and without it, the world changes around us

grass grows up around our stony face

until we are buried

we still witness yellow sunsets

voices that carry across a lonely lake

sky and trees reflected there


as a bicycle

bounces past

bats brush against families

where alcohol and nonchalant times

welcome them

into the next day

when will the stones cease to be silent?

do they have anything to say?

the dark tunnel swallows most who walk down it

the brave stones

hold the light


and don’t grow like the weeds


the ground

like a solid oak

with big limbs

and meaningful roots

after the stones have spoken.

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