I seem to wake
and sleep ambiguously,
to see and misconceive,
to feel on the brink of something
that doesn’t end, beauty
that is more than beautiful,
meaning that is more.
-Brook Emery
The New Parthenon
History piles onto itself.
Some rooms are built to hold sculpted-sand.
To preserve traces of faith in ourselves
A fellow broken at the nape,
ribcage of famished stone
Immortalized and forgotten
The plastic placard suggesting vague dates
It has weathered two thousand years of dust
For what?
Fleeting seconds of greatness?
A legacy that stretches far beyond its models life?
The man whose face was sculpted would cry to know
That his identity is the least important part of his stone likeness
