why do we live, and playing with forms

We take another step through another room in the museum, 
soft eyes take in another work on another wall.

We walk the path ‘round the base of the mountain, 
picking up bright rocks along the way.

We arrange them on the shelf next to the books whose pages we turn, 
whose passages we memorize, whose authors have returned to dust
that collects on the floor that we sweep gently each day, 
for it to collect again tomorrow.

When the shelf is filled, and we can add no more to the collection,
will the weight of our treasures play anchor ‘gainst a current ceaselessly past, 
or act as lash, at least, to a grand tradition, feigning eternal?

Or when we lay full of sleep, with eyes unlit by meteor’s blaze,
will a caretaker the bedside by, take the last book down, 
and clear the baubles, even deigning to pocket a single one?

Then, will death be proud,
or does He too, tire of collecting stones?

— — —

Another step we take through museum hall,
We walk the path ‘round the base of the mountain.
Soft eyes take in another work on another wall,
Backs bend to grasp rocks for our collection.

In front books whose authors have returned to dust,
We arrange souvenirs neatly ‘long the bureau, 
We sweep gently, our daily fuss,
For it to collect again tomorrow.

We seek an answer, or to ‘least lash fast,
Against a grand tradition feigning eternal,
While the current continues ceaselessly past,
No anchor holds ‘gainst the river infernal.

But when we lay full of sleep, with eye
Unlit by meteor’s blaze, 
Will a caretaker the bedside by, 
Make clean the cluttered space?

Then, will Death’s pride, at least, be fired?
Or does collecting stones make Him, too, tired?

— — —

Another step we take through museum hall,
We walk the path ‘round the base of the mountain.
Backs bend to grasp rocks for our collection,
Soft eyes take in another work on another wall.

We arrange souvenirs neatly ‘long the bureau, 
In front books whose authors have returned to dust.
We sweep gently, our daily fuss,
For it to be dirtied again tomorrow.

We seek the answer, or to ‘least lash fast,
Against a grand tradition feigning eternal.
Unable to anchor ‘gainst the river infernal,
The current continues, ceaselessly past.

But when we lay by fire full of sleep,
Will a caretaker the bedside by,
Meteor still blazing in their eye,
Throw the last book in a heap?

Then, will death be proud,
or does He too, tire of collecting stones?