Cold laces bones more closely than marrow,
stones tell stories to deafened souls
as tales turn to pleas to be heard,
but are forgotten at the sight and
delight of a beautiful face
that is laced by the cold of the breeze.
A century is just a year waiting to be heard,
a plot of history not as valuable as a sculpted face -
that stone is a page of a textbook blowing in a breeze
that blew a century ago, as cold as bone marrow
in forgotten fossils, once discovered, now forgotten and
remembered, forgotten and remembered by souls.
Remember them like you remember her face,
read their stories like you read her skin and marrow,
feel their fear like you feel her breath in the breeze,
listen to their loss like you worship every heartbeat she’s ever heard,
look up to the sky, welcome the biting cold, and
realize today, for an instant, God regretted giving us souls.