iambic pentameter

Which is actually a funny way of saying 'poetry the way everyone expects it'

Anyway this poem is the fault of Tom, Rachel, Nicole, and Suzanne. It needs work but I might as well put it up in its present form now.

Happy New Year's!

My touchstone's broken in the windy street
I look for life in faces made of stone
I speak my time in phrases overblown
They feast in footprints from my bloody feet.

Pulling at obstacles I cry
Clawing with bloody hands we dig
A thousand men or more dig here
In rows; we come alone, not organized
We strive in frenzy, grasp the earth in fear.

And this is not a pleasant mystery
For what was told us, each to each
We'd find anew inside these cobbled streets
Bodies we buried many years ago.

And when I reach my prize so high
I'll lift it, in display and pride
So carefully I'll clean these dirty bones
And then I'll smile and climb inside
The grave; Then I'll be home.

And dreaming then of times that passed me by
I'll fill my heart and stomach with the rocks
And up above my bones will walk and talk
And eloquently discourse on the rain.
All manner converse will they have
With every gentle creature in the land
And never will be heard a note of pain.