They Do Nothing

Look under garden stones,
Behind black waterfalls,
They will stare into your eyes
Without guilt and purpose,
Covered in blankets of moss,
Biding their time until never,
They do nothing but look into
The notes of Time as if feasting
On events and bloating on turbulence
Find their open mouths perched
On false columns and gray stairwells,
Hear the creak of their joints
When they migrate with dandelion seeds
On allotted landscapes with fairy lights
Because they refuse to wear the iron
That commits lesser men to the ground,
They cannot digest the sickly mortar
That binds fortresses of ambition
And makes gutters of thick arteries,
No, they are much too divine, you see,
Their eyes are lanterns that throw
Moonlight on every forest floor,
Do not confuse the reflections
Of knotted trunks and bulbous roots
With melancholy,
You will sully the dregs that lovers wear
When tempests in small cups were spent,
Throw away the longing in their empty hands,
Lest you make of privation a charade
Too easily worn by gaunt faces,
Old faces, worn faces,
Calcified, porous, stone faces,
These are men you will walk on
Long before their husks are cast,
And they will not deign to be human enough
To cry protest.

Image Source: Agnes Cecile