Wednesday, 27 April 2011

Rosy Bleakness

There was a man who lived his life with a whistle on his lips
Baggy, checkered pants, with him a hammer and a chisel
Walked with a swagger, an exaggerated swing of his hips
Every day he goes down a path crowded with overgrown thistle

He had the look of a man with an aim
Of doing something, perhaps a claim of fame
He answers queries with a smile so plain
Voiceless answers and questions slain

Where he goes nobody knows
Of what he does, nothing shows
A cryptic task, a secret held close
But a harmless endeavor, the need to know never arose

He walks alone, this man unnamed
Head held high, face haggardly weathered
Of what he does he has no shame
In his heart though his soul has floundered

The graveled path he’s been using
Brings him to a mountain centuries in standing
Had hammered his chisel a continued chipping
No pause, no rest, he was just unrelenting
A silent hope, a prayer for achieving

He toils away, this lonely man
Intent of finding a breach, a crack, a rent
He traces his effort, act on his plan
From the slightest trickle, he's looking for a gush, a torrent
Of spring water so clear,
So cool, so tender

He thinks it’s there, he hopes it’s true
Basing his faith on the barest of clue
A slight pause so sudden that’s out of the blue
“What if I have been but a fool, a victim of ridicule?”

A stop so short though seemed an eternity
He shrugs his thoughts, gutting his temerity
Hammer to chisel, the core of this entity
Hammer and chisel, his quiet dignity...

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