This Day, I'd Be A Rock

This day, I'd be a rock
to who's man, I would not talk
so he can hear himself at last
overlook his timeswept past.

I'd crumble to imagination,
lost to earth voices and direction,
yet I'd like for him to hear
the watered trickle of his fear.

It washes away existence -
though does it well void distance
between what he seems and sees;
on this rock he sleeps and dreams.

He stumbles as he lays faced
by faces I long ago embraced,
and he shouts in split disharmony
the decrepit state of his autonomy.

This is no one else's cry of war -
what he bellows is a silent roar
without an ear to understand;
I merely am part of the land.

But after this day's troubled mare
in strength uneroded he's to bear
what's by grace been given,
the rest of matter forgiven.

Though I'd remain to be lift,
I'd rest in mercy to this gift,
in waiting, chipping, smoothing
edges into space more soothing.