I have no words beyond these hollow prayers,
these markers in my book of life-goes-on.
Take them, anyway; none better come.
These are the words I have. All else is gone.
Each familiar platitude is worn
like pebbles in a stream. The water flows
onward, downward, to the distant sea,
but writes upon the stone all that it knows.
I should have more words. They too have run
off to the ocean, hidden there among
drowned cities built of alabaster poems
when language was still new upon man's tongue.
Let them go. They left me as I slowed,
forgot the names I gave them in my youth.
What remains will do, must do; they are
my polished pebbles tumbling toward the truth.
Stephen Brooke ©2008
Yes, good ol' pentameter.