The Dance of Stone

Stones turn soft when stepped upon, grass turns brown when gazed upon. The sun shines light, but not to see. What comes in light is simply known, and none are known better than those who know not.

What is held in my mind holds in the world. To gain a grasp is to turn to stone. Let me not think much of you. Flee you from the sun. Let fires not rage in your heart lest light should shine on those around and flames lick wounds long closed to time.

I long to bear the sight of green, be rid of brown, be haloed yellow. That bounced off stone my words not be. That with my hand should stone turn soft, on solid ground my feet should stand, and to my ears should sounds arise of words yet left unspoken.

What is the dance of stone? Must I join to see? Must I light fires in my heart to know that which is cold? Or are the stairs but made of stone who come to life as I step off, that in the dark I leave behind lies life that I have known?

And if the light shines from my heart, then where is it I go? I seek life in colored stone, but facing me is gray. Perhaps it is my purpose to find stone yet unturned. That when my light should shine upon, I see what stands in dark.