From Soft Soil
By Steven Lester
From soft soil I see, my marble eye
gazing upon thee.
Scurrying here and there, hurriedly
passing by, not musing on the spoils that beneath me lie.
A monolith reaching, stretching in the
night, a gargoyle guardian until morning light.
By morning and through day, a crawly
record that mere mortals pass this way.
A constant stance, my announcing dance,
till my shadow grows, night, then light, so the cycle goes.
From soft soil I ponder, with granite
thoughts wonder.
What my spoils would say, if they had
another day: what would they be, if I set them free
Yet by my might, hold their cold lips
tight, corruption has lock and key, living flesh they will never be.
I'm bound by my master's command that
none must slip from my hand.
So by bulking hardness, captive souls
harness, in sod and worms drown, the departed souls bound.
From soft soil I speak, ancient
foundations move and squeak.
Once an ally in the fiendish foes
fight, hence displaced and dethroned by Heaven's might.
Rolled aside by the divine inside:
worm, stench, decay, all given way to behold the light of this
glorious day.
Granites new epitaph cries, man shall
arise; now marble's declaration: the body awaits salvation!
Gilead has poured her oil, death halted
in his toil, atop soft soil an angel sits upon his spoil.
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