still hangs around, hisses, frowns, pouts

that i should do more. today i carried the ceiling,

it cracked and i ended with a bad back. i was

told it could have been much worse.

the twitches, the hiccups, the shuffling about

all because those wrinkles aren’t made perfect.

the wise man became stone after a while, no one

knew what he meant and the interpreters simply

said their two cents worth, who was i to argue?

maybe i should, the stone pieces are crumbling,

inertia, hesitancy, the followers hold marches

i am not able to hang out with these good fellows

when i can still taste yesterday’s ashes. it is too late?

the wise man is little pieces, he is the wind, gently blowing

though the hard of hearing will miss that whisper:

trying to say something, ending up a lot more confusing

for those trying to pry apart something so ancient.

the neighbors were no longer around, did the wise man

actually eat and take strolls?

but inertia is strong, like the wind that has infinite stamina,

patience – it has already washed down this mountain

still here yesterday. yesterday i was around. you were too.

and maybe that is why we cling on so much to the past,

it is part of who we are, at least in the way we tell what actually

happened, like the dead interpreters whose bones has long been

sucked up by the sea. we don’t know if the interpretation means anything,

not when it really could have been anything.

but i guess regiments, structures succeed because

men like you and me want something to believe in.