A Stone

And a stone I was, and a stone I’ll be.
What goes on all these years, I’ll surely see.

Kings and broken crowns.
Fallen damsels and tattered gowns.

Pauperly priests and priests who lack heart.

Hear sermons on how Earth is supposed to be God’s work of art.

Behold this pièce de résistance crumble,
while screams are diminished to mumbles.
Mumbles give way to silence.
On God’s green Earth, there’s blood and violence.

There appear messiahs and saviours,
but a world that doesn’t want to be saved,
where is the wolf cub to hide, if there is no cave near to shield him from mortal rage.

And someday, if I’m lucky enough-
A sculptor will pick me up,
and etch on me a glorious story.
But no matter who is praised, no matter what the words say-
A stone I am and a stone I’ll be.
The years, as they pass, irrevered by me,
what becomes of the world, I’ll surely see.

And perhaps an angry little boy one day
kicks me far away.
I’ll go be a part of the soil, and see a new place,
witness new stories where the same human emotions prevail-
love, lust, hunger, greed and power-
ringing in doom’s day.
Pray mend your ways, pray mend your ways!

When the Earth is to perish anyway,
let it be a sunny day.
On the desert of purity, let it not rain.
Nor a dark cloud loom,
for darkness, they say, is synonymous to doom.

But what about oaks and bulls wild?
What about the wisdom an owl holds even when darkness is held in spite?

And once I saw Belle fall deeply in love with Beast.
Once I saw a little red girl being tricked into being a feast.
Once I saw a little boy lend his tiny heart, and wish well upon a flying lark.

But I’ve seen more good than bad.
More happy than sad.
And travellers I’ve seen many, and heard many stories.

I’ve had people make me a part of their home.
Little children keeping me as a memoir, until no more are their days of yore.

I’ve had people throw me,
and been kissed by a poem.
I’ve been drenched in rain slow,
and scorched for I owe the sun, but never bowed.

I am but a stone.

And though a stone may not see, it hears all your woes.
It knows, through its many years to wisdom, what touches our souls.

To hear is to feel,
to feel is to see.
Too see is to be, and that’s all that matters to me.

I am too proud, I am too vain.
A stone I am, a stone I stay.

© achillesheelpoetry, 2022

3 thoughts on “A Stone

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