A Statue of Limitations

My outstretched hand
stone and ivy coiled
reaches out forever for your retreating form
obscured by the mist rain of magic and loss
But my face has turned
cracked the plaster crust of the past’s claim to sacrosanctity
my hand may long but my mind’s moved on
And under the skin I tap the vein that carries my spirit
in a rush of melancholy joy at my own ability to exist
independent and unreachable to the thoughts of others
This statue was sculpted by the hand of becoming
but it will not remain against the erosive force of being
It is not skin that defines memory
but blood and guts
heart and the blade of thought

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