I wandered down the steps,
Broken, worn, grey and filled with specs of marble,
That only glint in the sunshine.
If they were human, these steps,
Would look like an old man,
Worn face, wrinkles expanding like sun rays across his face,
Hair covering all the places,
Which were smooth enough, once, for every flicker of emotion,
To be seen.
When he smiles,
Like the sun hitting marble speckled flecs,
On worn old steps,
You stand, stunned.
Like the sun breaking through clouds,
The heaviness of age lifts,
The hair on his face bristles,
He whistles low, and laughs like the foghorn of a boat in mist.
Rippling sentences of light protrude from eyes that refuse to send,
The message to his lips.
Instead, you’re left wondering, how many others have left laughter,
At the base of old worn steps?
How many stories are hidden, in broken stone, under folded skin?
What don’t we see, the unknown unknowns, hidden within?
History lives on, through worn marble steps, and beautiful wrinkled skin.
I think he knew,
That we couldn’t see,
That he was the Earth, and the Earth was he.