Monument

I'm carving stone.

Nails clawing small flakes away.

Blood acts as water to erode little canyons, cutting paths to the base.

I cling with all tenacity and hope.

My face stretched, leathery and taunt against all smiles.

I've been crafting since the son was set free into the wind, maybe before.

A monument.

Devoid of real form but esteemed.

Pitied.

Pitted.

Decided.

Using my own bones to chisel relief.

My teeth make ivory thrones to the small gods.

My hair billows, white clouds shrouding eyes not imagined.

Slowly the form is unnoticed.

Storms ebb in again.

Still. I. Cling.

It's throbbing.

Vibrant in the blood.

Solid in a sea of rich black mud.

When I'm done, put it at the base of humanity.

Like a inside out pyramid.

A tomb to a fustian raven.