Walking down the wall
\nI see the hieroglyphics of living.
\nThe stone is clear,
\nbarely etched where I began.
\nThe brown stone of a sierra.
\nOnly horizon and empty air.
\nArtifacts of distance,
\nwhere time is swallowed up.
\nSo infancy is a clean place.
\nA study of lines and diaphanous meanings.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s as I go down the wall
\nthat signatures begin.
\nStrata writes the history of hours
\ndeposited second by second,
\nwith the invisibility of kelp
\nunder a sea of sand.
\nThe soul, dancing through the atoms,
\nleaving nothing of itself behind.<\/p>\n
Then the writing begins.
\nThe pictures.
\nThe storms and battles.
\nCrevices gashed in the rock.
\nVases and buildings,
\nand finally portraits,
\nanimals,
\nthe starvation of time
\nas things fall out of its fate.<\/p>\n
And I reach a point, still untouched.
\nStill inviting me to mar its surface
\nwith odysseys and secret codes
\nand despair.
\nBut light is revealed
\nonly in a pictograph candle.
\nA flame.<\/p>\n
The light that was flame, missing.
\nAnd that is what I am becoming.
\nFire going out.
\nTrickling away.
\nThat\u2019s all I was in the beginning,
\nfire consuming its host.
\nLife.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Walking down the wall I see the hieroglyphics of living. The stone is clear, barely etched where I began. The brown stone of a sierra.…<\/p>\n