Stones and moss return

When I walk through a life I see stones and moss return to words
Trapped as so many flies in a pitcher plant
Slide down the neck with the promise of a sip at a sweet well
Drowned in loops of twisted knotted downward pointing prose

Can it be that daggers of promise
Are forced into my consciousness?
Unwanted unasked for unlooked for unseeked unseekable unknown unforgiven
Am I to walk blindly through the labyrinth of stones
My footfalls cushioned on beds of poor moss
Trampled by years of moronic mourning
And left to force itself back to its full height after bearing the weight of all who pass?

What awakens the dead? Why are the stones forced to march
Eyeless and sleepless forever unknowing
Forward at all times. Can it be that looking back is forbidden by the
Universe?s rule book?

The grain in wood is the river of words that expand like fire through my mind. A pattern is set yet other than a simple rhythm, there is no pattern. Definition by repitition is no meaning. I have found little to rejoice for in recent days, preferring to sit as the pitcher and wait. Passive aggression in a violent world. I shall not digest the dust that flows ceaselessly into my open mind.