Wooden Monuments.

 

 

 

 

 

I am building a tower and it will be built upon by the hands of time.    It will be finessed and  the etchings carved into marbleized histories,  remnants left for consideration.   A bored scholar will scribe his articulations on paper and artists upon the heart  sometimes with words and other times shades of different colors.

 

Our passions darken as our own freedom gives us license.   To establish who we are and why we should matter.

 

The dimming lights provide sanctuary  for secrets held within,  while the new trees bear the same old fruit.   Replacing antiquity with green limbs envious.    Accounts will be altered,  values distorted like a warped window or a cracked mirror.    Only tiny shards indiscernible will collect dust.   The hammering thoughts of preservation are to no avail.  The ebb and flow of matter reconstitutes itself.    Aware of nothing but it’s new place,  neither the checkered foster homes of neglected souls or the random insects in their constabularies.    New kings and queens arise,  like heaving opportunists secure in that moment only.

Willingness gives way to wood,  brick and dust and from these new houses are made.   New conflicts arise and the sentient drama of conflicting self wills lay about and scattered by Zephyrs and Foehn.    Tears drip from random placements like lost toys of our youth,  neither material or a ether  just an unnoticed stroke of a pen and a purchase.

The final revolution spins to a stop and the cul-de-sac of expectancy gives way to a somber recollection.   Momentary gratitude and an appointment looming,  breaks the shadow of what once was and will never be again.