yesterday

still hangs around, hisses, frowns, pouts that i should do more. today i carried the ceiling, it cracked and i ended with a bad back. i was told it could have been much worse. the twitches, the hiccups, the shuffling about all because those wrinkles aren't made perfect. the wise man became stone after a while, no one knew what he meant and the interpreters simply said their two cents worth, who was i to argue? maybe i should, the stone pieces are crumbling, inertia, hesitancy, the followers hold marches i am not able to hang out with these good fellows when i can still taste yesterday's ashes. it is too late? the wise man is little pieces, he is the wind, gently blowing though the hard of hearing will miss that whisper: trying to say something, ending up a lot more confusing for those trying to pry apart something so ancient. the neighbors were no longer around, did the wise man actually eat and take strolls? but inertia is strong, like the wind that has infinite stamina, patience - it has already washed down this mountain still here yesterday. yesterday i was around. you were too. and maybe that is why we cling on so much to the past, it is part of who we are, at least in the way we tell what actually happened, like the dead interpreters whose bones has long been sucked up by the sea. we don't know if the interpretation means anything, not when it really could have been anything. but i guess regiments, structures succeed because men like you and me want something to believe in.