Pacing Out A Soul

The basement cell where Geronimo was sometimes kept Had an uneven floor, said to be caused by his constant pacing. I too pace the walls inside my mind, for it seems to be holding me Though sometimes I can escape it, through imagination. There are large boulders and remnants of pottery Scattered throughout many places, proof of others, Whose prisons were diverse times; long ago settlements, Of names now forgotten or scarcely mentioned anymore. The people were always less durable than soil or stone: They flowed like liquid from area to area, seeking water, buffalo, prosperity. Children were their true riches, and longevity their blessing; If you didn't die in childbirth, you might live a long time. I feel their artifacts all around me, half-buried in clay and sand; Many years are like only a moment, to a planet one-sixth the age Of the total universe. But the past haunts me, watching as it does, From the eyes of all their children, still walking this earth.