That Which Is Life Poem by Soran M. H

From the womb of stone
comes a moan to the ear,
as though an age
had rolled for an eternity,
then rolled again,
never once touching its end.

Those dreams
revealing themselves there...
emerge from their darkness
and say nothing.

It moves on
to the rhythm of blow upon blow,
through the nausea of evening's darkness,
crossing the fracture
of dawn's broken head,
yet never arriving...!

Beneath the walls of the impossible,
it has curled in upon itself,
with eyes without lids,
staring, never blinking.

It bears its sickness,
its stone fingers,
and in its hollows
the sediment of hatred and envy,
the remnants of betrayals
that found no grave.

The smiles of the simple-hearted
are wiped away
from the blackboard of life.

That wandering planet,
having lost its balance,
trembles on the Richter scale
of abandonment,
weighed down by Sisyphus
and the rocks of deception.

Strange, that it neither sinks
nor falls.

This crowded record
has left not even the smallest crack
through which another hope
might enter.

The weary spirit
gathers the specters of shadow,
one after another,
so that the narcissus,
if only for a moment,
may sleep
in the embrace of revelation.

An eye keeps vigil above—
behind the mirrors,
between the folds of curtains,
beyond the closed windows...

The laughter of passing moments,
the dust of black noise,
the bowed shapes of lamentation...

It gathers them all
at a turn no eye can see,
within its silence,
embroidered with caution.

Those who climb its stairs
do not see it.

They sleep upon its skin
and do not hear
its breathing.

That which
is life—

and we
are death.