Megalith

(center)Visions grow out of our imaginations like vines. We want to excavate a bare-knuckled past with the jaw bones of concussed elks. A cold moonlight carves them still. They are the blunt teeth of a low wailing sky, the works of a hand-crushed faith far beyond the ken, of we curious and depthless delvers. We who stand now non-plussed, our minds turned around these mute megaliths as if we were stone thoughts upon a grinding lathe searching for any distant sense of - why while myopically questioning the source of our softly rooted selves.(center)