This Figure

This figure , wrists encrusted with failing cement
Either stories-large or seeming so

His eyes still move, that is all
His chest is wide with pulse, a slam and some ash -
His culture is sexual is not sentient
He is not me, I assure you

He is not me, I grow only as a one
He is many, is the air of stone and expanse

His nod repeats in the blinks of those that (seem to) stand before him

There again and again, a dream that fills the view
The sky behind him is boring on his days
He possesses no more power that the minds of those that stand before him
And he does not see, ever, for his feet do not move

He possesses only the screen of your duration, on his days, the dust so dry to the mouth of your sky