Who are you, Richard Steel?

Who are you Richard Steel?
Where are you now that your house is only 12 feet by 12, your name etched on the wall for all to see, perched atop the city of the departed.
A pair of black boots by the side of the trail, recently abandoned,
exited or waiting for a weary traveler's feet to return.
Wind blows across wide waters.
Trains move slowly over on beams of concrete blocks.
A child's make-believe world comes to life, comes from life.
Solid, unmoved, created.
I find you beautiful.
A stark contrast, standing resolutely, telling waters to move around you.
I'm looking at life through ornate white iron fences, petite white flowers cluster around solitary black lamps.
Riding against the wind both ways, but a joy in the heart.
Ride on.
Breathe in a rare freshness.
Who are you Richard Steel?
Who are you Lindsay Craft?
Are you busy building a shed to house this decaying body?
That stone house doesn't matter now, does it Richard?
Did your life really matter?
Who are you?
Who am I?
Am I riding along the waters or am I just letting them pass me by?
Sometimes I sit and watch.
Sometimes I ride along beside.
And sometimes I stay home and curl up on my bed.
But do I ever really do more than dream of jumping in head first?
Or am I busy building my miniature castle on a hill?
Trying to reach to heaven as I dig my own grave deep in the cold earth?