eternity is not made of stone

that which endures about the ruins
was not drafted upon an architect’s board
but the muse
which pierced a soaring heart

the only lasting structures in our minds
come from a writer’s pen

it is the word
compositions
made of concepts

our collective genius
resonating
through libraries
of expanding stars

the sum of my life
will amount
to a pile of stone mason’s dust
beneath my headstone

an epitaph chiseled
into gaps of minerals missing

Here lies the well used body of Alicia Young. She used it as an instrument of destruction. She wrote poems. She ate the creamy center of the world. She loved her children. She would rather be in Cleveland drinking.