13 Nov Gothics, Debris, Stone, Trees

I am made of time’s little ticks,
Like masonry churches in Essex,
Bricks laid uniform and laid right,
I am like the Gothics.

I am only what remains of me,
Like how nothing is ever used for free,
A pencil is not whatever it writes,
I am like debris.

I am carved by a sculptor unknown,
Like the rocky canyons weathered to bone,
That reflect the image of their creator,
I am like the stone.

I am made of countless memories
Like how a forest is made of leaves.
With loud bouquets of crafted paper,
I am like the trees.

And behind the lips of the Gothics
What I could not see in debris
What was never known within the stone
And the mysteries of all the trees

To look at how all these parts
Are details of the greater whole.
Each are examples of the arts
And complete each one’s soul.

We could never appreciate in the scale
Of how each of these come together
In the striking of every detail
Or we’d be lost in it forever.

To look beyond of what is now,
Of every part and every how,
You’ll lose your time and gain anew,
What you observed is now you.