deepundergroundpoetry.com

Seasons of a stone

Like sheep
Weeping in fields of corn
To the slaughter guided
By your will to slay
We supplicate your blood lust
Casting red dye upon
The innocence of a stone
That resides for no reason
Except to be.
Unencumbered by predation
Though only four seasons exist
To polish, and fashion, and set, and display
In a circular conundrum
An understanding of its moment to be
Ever diminishing in stature
It still knows its place
Except to be.
And so chaos of an unknown
Not the polish of tears that soon fall as boulders
Not the fashion of stillness that soon rolls into motion
Not the set of perfection that soon erodes with cracks
And not the display of glory that soon ruins to insignificance
An unknown season
Quite fleeting in spontaneity
No quantifiable continuity
An anomaly to imprint upon
The innocence of a stone
That resides for no reason
Except to be.