Granite Teeth

Beneath the cold hush of dawn’s fist,

the earth cracks a grin—

granite teeth bite the sky.

A mouth shaped by millennia,

gnawing at time’s unbroken bone.

These stones, ancient witnesses,

have no tongues to tell their tale,

but speak through jagged silence,

through fractures that sing of storms,

through veins of quartz

dripping with the memory of fire.

The wind threads itself

through the gaps,

a needle stitching whispers

to their stillness.

Even the lichen clings

as though to hold them steady,

afraid they might crumble

under the weight of forever.

Here, our fragile bodies

stand pale beside them,

our breath quicksilver,

our steps a fleeting echo.

We envy their permanence,

yet tremble at their patience,

the way they endure

even as they erode.

They grin still—

mocking, enduring,

teeth sharpened by the ages.

And we, soft and fleeting,

leave no mark but shadows

that vanish in the rising light.