A Waste of Stone

A much-revised edition of a poem written for a chapbook back in college.

We were born stoned,
clutching and clawing at visions
before we knew how to see.

We were raised stoned,
our mouths agape at the swingset
and long division.

         A Mozart piece would send us reeling,
         unable to stand his lonelyperfection.

We could drive stoned,
stopping often and speeding up
and always akin to wind.

We howled and harmonized with night -
the kind that know how to end.

         We'd had enough.

We will die stoned.
The scents and sights will burn us;
we will smoke and stink.

         They'll smash our tombs
         and sweep away our names.

It seems to us a waste of stone.