To Be Re-Titled

[Phase prose: I will be updating and changing this piece as the Muse strikes. Any criticisms and commentary are appreciated].

The rocks are everywhere. They fell from the sky.

That is what our Fathers told us. Our mothers weren't around, though some of us vaguely remember them from early childhood. The rest of what we hear about them comes mostly from myth, fancied tales told from child to child -- outside of any Fathers' earshot.

The rocks are pock-marked and incomplete. They don't crumble in our hands, but they fill the potholes and wells of the streets in avalanches under your foot as it lifts and marches forward. The rocks never stay in one place for too long. The feet keep marching. We forget that they leave as many holes as they fill.

Some think they remember that the mothers never wanted to leave. Most aren't sure.

Rain falls from the sky but it is mute. Our childhood lacked lullabies; we tilt our mouths ajar to the sky. The droplets thicken our blood. Our mouths are always open.

The mothers took the pearls when they left. They took the olives. They stole the sun and the warmth we've been missing during this, our extended infancy.

What will be left to stand on when the spaces are all filled,
When there are no more rocks... When the sky is squeezed dry and goes black?
The rain falls between the rocks as we walk along the rocky path.
The weather will erode these rocks.
In time.
So they say.