bored children

a waterfall fell here once

now caverns yawn awake

and, restless, turn their great black eye

to the surface-world.

the river their father has gone away,

and earth-mother still sleeps undisturbed.

what then, for the chambers,

for the hollow halls, the hidey-holes,

chasms, nooks, ravines, to do?

an echo is not a playmate in the regular sense:

it proposes a game then quickly goes away.

memories of cataclysmic cataracts,

of birth pains and erosion,

fade like the echoes

and are not much fun after awhile.

they would make a nice story, perhaps,

but there is no one to hear the tale,

nor do rocks know quite how to tell it,

neither is anyone coming to visit, anytime soon.

lacking much society,

caves must sit and seep,

slowly soaking in anxious isolation,

sorrow-full and solace-less,

never speaking, always watching

the upstairs goings-on

with the silence of an envious voyeur

until their jealous hunger for action

(a desperate wishing to devour some bit of life,

some living thing, maybe, some event, some city,

some empire long-observed and much-admired)

overcomes them.  at last, perhaps

they make some little lurch and,

gasping with a megalomaniacal gobble,

suddenly collapse.


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