Indifference

Granite, basalt, slate—all textures coarse,

A fortress born of earth's relentless force.

Impenetrable, indifferent, it remains,

The stone house looms, under the moon's pale glare,

He treads a path through night's encroaching gloom,

A man of flesh, frail in this stony tomb.

His breath, a ghost in the night's frigid air,

A living thing, unaware of despair.

A misstep, a stumble, and then a fall,

He crashes down, a moment's fatal thrall.

His skull meets stone—a sickening, sharp crack—

His skull splits open, life fades to black.

The stone, unmoved, absorbs the warmth of blood,

Its cold face stained with the life it lacked.

The man's breath stills, his eyes glaze, vacant, wide,

A fragile vessel, broken, cast aside.

For stone endures, unfeeling, void of soul,

A canvas blank, untouched by joy or dole.

In this cruel juncture, flesh and stone collide,

One perishable, one eternal in stride.