Those old, stone boulders -
rough, cold, and lonely.
Topped with temples older
than the one and only -
that cave carved in a hill,
chiseled in ancient rock
by feat of iron will -
precise as key-in-lock.
How long will it last
for pilgrims to walk
into the distant past,
'til it erodes like chalk?
This entry was posted in poem, Poetry and tagged poem, poetry by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.
