The Black Curve of Time

He was honest
Resting on top
Of the warm, protruding stone
Arching a deep black shadow
Above a hollowed throne

As he sat there, alone
He rested on the ceiling of kings

Unknowingly
Kicking his feet, and wishing for feathered wings
In a time of metal blades

His worn, polyester backpack swung in the breeze
Hanging from the sharp crack



That split rigidly between the rock
And the boy's callused knees

He looked down
Only for moments when he could
To view the waste of time
The erosion of what once stood
For someone
Blackly carved in, and impossible to climb

The boy thought,
"What was this place back in time?
And why is the wind eating the stone?"
His eyes grew wide, with deep black irises
Trying to absorb the unknown

Until the wind scraped and spiraled up the ancient walls
To shrill through the jagged crack
Pushing the flying boy to a shaking crawl
And just barely releasing the strap of his pack
Directly into the eaten mouth of stone

He gathered his thoughts
There, shaking on the mountain
Backed up from what he sought
Realizing he was alone

And found his way back
Afraid, but very alive
To his mother