Ephemeral Fruits

Even stone withers
akin to the face of an old man
worn by weather and toil
given enough time
it hollows with pockmarks and wrinkles
names chiselled by hand and iron
dissolve into it’s surface
leaving only indistinct scars
faint bumps of secret code under the
fingertip
fading eventually to nothing
like a memory dying in the brain
forsaking all calls to enjoy its pleasures
one more time
just a ghost in a field of crooked stones
choked by grass
then soil
then gone
buried
built on
renewed and forgotten completely
all who fought and loved and lost
they ate the ephemeral fruit for
a chance of brief bitter-sweet life
the touch of the Gods
compels the eternal consequence
not even a whisper to tell the tale
of all who lived
and lay here
in this flat empty field