Like vines like veins
Nourished by the water of my eyes
Age grows around my stony body
And captures the stillness of ‘you’ (the empty air, a formerly occupied space)

Green the taught color of these unpulsing veins
Blue the imagined, unseen color of my unsalty eyes
In a garden the serpent hides
I cannot move the years go by like flashes
Of lightening I stand tall and proud
Under these vines as if they can’t even
Weave their way into my secret cracks

But weave they do, listlessly, chaotically,

[Almost spiritually, almost like the red spirit of blood often does]

Hidden the serpent coiled, and waited,
Waited for the efforts of the vines…

But my maker is dead. And I am forgotten, you see.
I am traced, yes, but I am forgotten.

I am weathering and my godlike form
Is returning and reducing to its basic Nature

I’ve studied the serpent coiled, his eyes have remained
Open, loss, have remained locked to mine, have remained
Mirroring, he’s mirroring my decaying stature.

I’ve outlived the serpent! The vines have grown brown and thin!
His eyes have grown dull and dry and his petrified scales
Have become like feather stones. Time is no longer starved, but has at last claimed prey!

Time is like the serpent is like the vines feeding on us all, lost,
A garden lost, I am the god forgotten, the god cracking and aging
The god silently and eternally becoming his Mother Stone (the womb)

Marking the grave of its former memory.

The secret of life lives in an undergrown stone at the north green end
Of an overgrown long-forgotten garden.

Eternity.