Stone

Stone

We are only stone.
We mine it
from our meals,
we
build bone with it;
scaffolding from which
to hang our
flesh --
itself fed by
rivers of iron
coursing through veins
like ore through earth.
We should have known;
when the days
were long and
we
broke tectonically,
built mountains
from valleys --
but we could not see;
buried, as we were,
beneath an avalanche of
years we thought
would come.
We are only shown
when the
fractures grow,
we
find faults
on every face
as tears, like
scree,
tumble
off the summit
back to the
center of the Earth.