(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)
Visions grow
out of our minds like vines.
We want to excavate
the bare-knuckled past
with the jaw bones
of concussed elks.
Wind and a cold moonlight
still carves them.
They are the blunt teeth
of a low wailing sky.
They are rock-hewn prayers,
works of a drowned
weight of era’s,
constructs so deeply layered now
that they are beyond the ken,
of we curious delvers.
We who stand non-plussed,
our minds twined
around these mute megaliths
feeling for any sense
of who and why?
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