Weathered Stone Poem by Barry Middleton

His epitaph is now
a broken gravestone,
a hidden fault line
running through a name
that's nearly worn away,
obscured by wildflowers.

The pity is, the cruelty,
not only life must end,
but even the grave,
the earth itself
is impermanent.

Fools like me
compose our verse
to buy a bit more time.

When it comes to graves,
I hope that they select
a sounder block,
or better yet,
cast my dates in bronze.

Futility is that nothing
endures, not stone,
not bronze, not even poetry,
and not the earth or sun.

New worlds will come to be,
from destruction, creation,
souls rising from the stardust.