Heads on shoulders:
pebbles atop broken
rocks,
half-carved into
torsos, arms, necks.
They roll down the ravine.
Suicide, you would think.
It’s not.
Instead – life.
A chip here,
a dent there.
They reach the bottom
battered.
Some unrecognizable.
They reach the bottom.
No longer caring
to go back to the top.