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
silence
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
WAKE
and don’t grow like the weeds
BREAK
the ground
like a solid oak
with big limbs
and meaningful roots
after the stones have spoken.