It is ever-present in both of our lives.
A crude reminder of that which could have been.
It has plagued my conscience since who knows when.
You can hear it in the wind, and in the deepest of sighs.
The artist sits at his bench and toils away.
The clay in his hands forms the young brains.
He hopes they form well, and that what remains,
Is
well-suited for the elements, and does not decay.
The cardinals preach their sermons no more,
From the tops of old oak trees that served as their stages.
Their words were true scripture, but came not from pages.
Now nothing but memories from the valley of yore.
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