Life of a Rock

An old rock sits,
perched on an emtpy hill,
cleansed by the rain.
He is alone, so alone
enjoying the short-lived
company of a fall shower.
People do come,
angry people, full of hate.
They come to deface him,
to destroy his bold beauty.
They are not friends,
the cruel people.
Only the rain is a friend now,
washing away the scars,
washing away the pain.
He is dying-slowly,
oh so slowly.
Pebble by pebble,
flake by flake,
he weathers as the world,
through the heat,
through the freeze.
Breaking apart, dying
slowly, oh so slowly.
He looks back
upon his youth.
The land was green,
the world friendly.
But it too is dying
slowly, oh so slowly.
Great trees once grew,
the grass was green,
the rain plentiful.
That time is lost now
remembered only by him,
that lone rock.
The memory is alive
but fading.
Dying slowly, oh so slowly.
He remembers the death.
The death of his last friends,
the mighty trees.
The people killed them,
chopped them down
carelessly.
All that remains
are their tombs.
Human homes,
memorials to the mighty trees.
At least they died quickly
simple pain-excrutiating,
but it was quick.
They died mighty
not stagnating,
like that rock,
like the world,
like the memories.
All dying slowly
oh so slowly.