I have been made in the image
Of a singular man who is not a god,
A man who cast his own body
In perfect imitation of his own self
In an act of hubris and of supplication.
An earthly creator who abandoned me
In the emptiness of a sea strand
To die a slow, painless death
By wind and weather and water
In another place.
I was not created to be alone.
My companions stand alongside me,
Perfect imitations of my own self
As I am of my maker,
But they are unknown to me.
My empty eyes see only darkness,
My fading body is weary, cold and hard,
And my empty mouth cries out in the wind
Reverberating in the hollows of my iron shell.
I cannot reach them.
I take in the hopes and questions
Of those who make pilgrimage
To this landscape of the hollow men.
I say and do nothing while showing them themselves.
I am a blank canvas of humanity
Where people can see what they choose,
Hear what they want to hear
And wonder if I am all that there is,
Searching me to find their own meaning.
Perhaps I am them.
All that there is for me is to wait,
Wait and endure the blast of experience.
My only purpose is merely to be.
My other selves who stand with me also wait,
Blind witnesses to time and tide.
We endure, both alone and together, in the drifting sand,
Silent soldiers in an army of insensibility.
I have no words, no thoughts, and no feelings.
If you want meaning you must look to yourselves,
For I have only myself.
I will wait for you.