Dripping Marble

A short, free-style poem about mortality.

The days enclose upon me like dripping walls of marble, forever inching closer towards the entombment of mortality.

Life is a distressed mistress whom wails upon our senses should we fail to head her call and whim, except the calls are but whispers, and whispers spoke through a wall of molten marble are seldom heard.

This existence gnaws on our essence, drains us of what we are to be and should, and plays it through a shismed spectacle of hope that kneads us from raw

bits of doe and potential to hardened artifacts of change left to attract dust in the eternal frontier of mortality.

We are gods without purpose, eternal architects writing out the equations to our end, if only just to glimpse the ends of our equations.

Is it but we whom write our ends, or is it our ends whom write us?

The sigh of mortality beckons in an eternal wheel of form, we are hopelessly immortal in mortality.

We are but the same story with different words, just waiting to be told again and again throughout the chasm of infinity.

No, more,

we are each a single word who build towards the story and the story itself. 

A relief is simple to read if it can be seen from above, but one dimension cannot explain the life of another.

Mortality as a concept is immortal, thus, the concept of immortality is only mortal. 

We, like the dripping marble, are alive for but a fleeting action,

only to remain cold, desolate and un-acting once the moment is up.

Will you be born a rigid and incomprehensible stone, or an inspired formation to cause awe for time immemorial?

The choice is each ours to make. Forever to be the same in essence, yet forever to be different in expression.

Author's Note

New poster, PLEASE BE GENTLE!!! lol