Kiss the Cold Stone
©2014, Olan L. Smith
Who looms over my grave?
Come closer kiss the cold stone.
You breathe; I am not envious,
But know I have stood
Precisely where you plunk your feet,
And wondered of my demise; death came in stillness,
I felt my spirit being ripped from my mortal flesh.
Very soon you will too, it matters not if you are
Asleep or awake; you will certainly suffer
The moment of your rebirth;
I am not beneath your feet, and
It is I who sheds tears for you.
You still wonder what world comes
Next; I already know for I see clearly
It is you whose vision is clouded.
People will fight over what you thought
Was yours, scattering your possessions to the four
Corners, like so much junk what was
Yours now is someone else’s. Photographs
Of love ones, their faces the next owner will not
Know. A loving soul preserves them, others
Will toss your pictures in the trash,
What remains of you on earth? An icy stone;
A grave, bones, ashes, dust…nothing more.
If others write of you, perhaps your effort
Will endure another generation, or two,
A few carve their life on all things.
What good does this life possess if not
As a memory in the minds of others? Some mortals till
The soil, a few stir the stars to the
Movement of their will, and then we have
Those who fashion stars; they created us.
