by poetrydiary

My finger traces
cracks between your stones,
stirring mortar and memories.
It hurts, like these towers on the landscape.

Dust, like peasants, scraped onto my finger;
falling into grass and vanishing,
like all who feel this power
and maintain these static towers.

Death and decay;
slow and small,
like the sand
in my hand.

You stand still,
hurting my moving finger,
while dying.

I live.