Towers crumble, ideologies fail
Souls contract, shut out the light--wail
and cling to what is gone--what they believe  
is right, even as they bleed from the thin,
sharp-edged pain of reality’s blade
The world cracks and we bandage the wound,
tourniquet wound tighter as life resumes
Step in time with the ticking clock that counts
down beats as stick to cymbal, fingers to strings
Oh that sound forever echoing, echoing in the ear
Block out the ring with busy hands, busy minds
and the balm of laughter or good time
Escape, escape the impermanence of everything
but the soul’s crying as we scribe the day’s dying
recorded on stone, papyrus, parchment, bytes
Dusted tomes forgotten in haste  
and mechanisms left to rust in greed’s decay  
As the power of the dead lay still, their skill
is used to further the climb
No life is in vain but fodder for another’s gain
Or enlightenment born of another’s pain
Oh the stain--eons of knowing carried in the blood
and written from fingers dipped in flood of ink
The hermit’s lantern, a pale light in the wilderness
lacking shine, so his wisdom is ignored on the vine
Oh the waste of precious fruit that drops
without a sound on the welcoming ground
Fresh food for thought that in another age
will be regarded as rare bounty from the grave




L.G. Figgins © 2009