If all the people disappeared,
I could write a poem about architecture,
time, and the gradual erosion of everything.
I prefer the stillness of rocks.
Give me a leaf floating on a lake, any day.
Although all castles are, ultimately sand, or even wind,
you disappear into the water, while I sit, writing.
I choose a rock from many
and write my poems’ words upon its outer surface.
They stare back up at the sky.
Sometimes, I just can’t get to the end of an idea.
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