Stock still stone slabs
a petrified conclave, amassing moss
and weeds that find the barely-there in-betweens
I imagine them once jostling for attention
imperceptible to other than the sculptor
just to be the chosen one, rubbed
dubbed, clubbed until lithic ensoulment
cuts out tunnels, grasps a speck of light
shape-shifting poetry as form
Stock still stone slabs
remain in vain, for the sculptor
is long gone – consumed – her passion spent
and all their future possibilities, becomings
will only feel the unforgiving hands of time
the four distorting winds of change
sunlight on whitening faces
weathered into one weighty wait
Written for Sarah’s Poetics prompt: Waiting for a poem
PoetryPix 