The rain

The rain has come, dripping night, sheeted moon. I stare through it, as if to find the words that elude me. I am told to write about legacy, and as such I must find myself in such a thought. Legacy, I give little caring to my own legacy to the dust my bones will leave. What do we leave behind, blood and stone, beyond the moment? The quest for immortality so frantic in some, driving the sticky work of fucking, not for pleasure but for mewling cries of blood, fueling such piercing words as son and daughter, name and honor. I wonder at the futility of it all. Time forgets, how can it recall each grain of sand? Does the earth remember each drop of rain that nourished it? Do the worn grooves of rock remember, or do they just hold the shell of memory, devoid of flesh. Decayed thoughts and deeds, petrified for a time, for a time. Perhaps for some, it remembers, holding back the night with music that echoes into the shadowy realm, but even echoes fade. Yet, a singular word can alter the courses of fate, the proverbial stone on the road. Ripples, vibrations, stardust expanding beyond the reaches of measure. Is this all legacy is, waves cresting, endlessly carrying each moment? Does love twine through the ages, does it hold the sky into the bright flash of oblivion? All I have ever wanted is to love. To love each moment, each beautiful leaf, the treerings that count hardships and ease (but that cannot ever recall the scented thirst of drought), to press lip on flesh and worship as my heart tumbles, pressing outwards. We are all racing into that light, into that is only time that stands between. So what is legacy and how do I write it in song, an irony when my words will drip into the grave, my notes will dim into the silences of time.

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