Helpless

Is this helplessness a perception of mind, Or a reality of flesh? But no, it is a sure and persistent perception. And what is there in me that may stand Against that which I cannot see? For he stands in shadows as patient as stone. He will wait and count the beatings of a heart, Which he would count forever if a heart could last. He follows, unnoticed, witnessing the laughter And the tears, but shares neither. He is witness to the spades symmetrical work, Where tears water a thirsting soil, but offers no comfort. He is never coming, for he is already here, and never to leave, Never to leave, a silent specter of stoic countenance. Is he waiting for me, or am I waiting for him, Helpless either way? Do I walk through gardens of stone, Searching for my personal etching? And am I helpless to sponge away the letters and the guilt, As I stand in the rain with mourners? They may retire, returning to life and laughter, but I must remain, Held fast in acrid earth by the marker of my passing, helpless. I so long to go with them, but I may not, Turning to look upon the stone and the life that could have been; helpless.