Cave paintings tell the oldest tales.
Charcoal impressions of a Neolithic age.
Ancient stone stories echo authors past.
Symbolic of the writer’s rocky path.
Once pried from cold, hard stone
You ask yourself, were they there all along?*
by K. L. K. Salazar
What siren song do fissures sing?
Elusive, mutable—so close, yet out of reach.
Can anybody hear you? See you?
Or do you speak only to my soul?
Hidden deep, in crevasses unknown.
Only found in shadows, on lichen-crusted clefts.
Under a winter’s sky—cold and blown.
A resonance of stone.
Falling, hitting, frozen things.
Echo shots creation brings, broken and rebuilt.
Etched in deep, where all words hide.
Unexpected meaning lies, unrefined,
Inside. Pitched to black and deeper reaches
No one knows what they may find.
When broken from the rock, words flow.
Released like melting snow
Warmed by sun’s beat.
Through erosion, exposition unfolds.
While I am weathered
Dreams fragmentary and unreal.
Cemented with faults.
I am stratified
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:
*I wouldn’t ordinarily have a footnote to my poetry. But I’ve never had this happen before. I don’t know what to call that little slice of word jumble at the top. I tried leaving it out and that felt wrong. I tried putting it in…even wronger. Is it a foreword? A prelude? A prequel? I’m not sure what to call it. So, I’m not calling it anything. It just is. And I hope that is enough.