EROSION

In Antarctic dry slopes
In desolate, Dali, dreamscapes
The hands of time
With slow, imperceptible strokes
Have fashioned, weathered, and sculpted
Twisted dream-shapes.
These Ventrified rocks
These eerie distilled distortions,
Are but mercury flowing
Free flowing forms
That yearn skyward,
But with dislocated bodies
Remain tied
To this grey land.
With elemental elegance
And curious care,
Time the sculptor,
Has encapsulated
Chaos and anarchy
In seamless snapshot
After seamless snapshot,
Has given birth to
Tortured formations
Harnessing ancient unstoppable forces
And time, the eternal sculptor
Will take back in death
What has been given in life,
Only to reinvent, and reinvent, to infinity.

If I stood upon this monochrome, pewter landscape
Amidst the winds
And the grit
And the giants,
Would my senses be stilled?
Be overwhelmed?
By my smallness?
By my isolation?
By the silence?
Or would the thudding of my heart
Shake these rock foundations?
Make the earth tremble?
Challenge these mighty wind-worn wonders?

&;#8230;&;#8230;For a moment, I am time!
Growing in stature
I tower above the towers,
But in a fleeting breath
I am dwarfed again,
I am overawed,
I am merely human!