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,
Very sad piece but powerful. Sad to be the one left…
def sad….those in power building towers and wiping out others…and yet they live…
Gorgeous! Whether your longer pieces (like this) or your haiku…really enjoying your poetry 🙂
Sad and powerful. A moving write.
This is beautiful….the ending lines specially ~