The forge

The season of this life has wrought
A thousand little fragments
From which I try to keenly forge
A plethora of meaning
But the hammer of my psyche broke
Upon the striking of the world
A thousand little bits remained
And each begat a thousand more
There would be no creation here
But neither is there loss
Just more and more and more and more
Then zephyr came to blow it clean
And a multitude came picking
A million billion pieces now
Strewn all across the desperate plane
Where people try to take their thousand
And forge it into more

Reviews

[barleygirl]

This is a brilliantly stated message that reverberates with the ages. People write about death all the time here at the cafe & often it's about hoping to have made a difference, or wanting to be remembered, or going back over to enumerate their contributions or regrets. It's all bullshit once it's behind us. Like all the trekkers swallowed by glaciers & other futile attempts to stand out & be remembered. I love the way you use the splitting-off imagery, the mounting millions of pieces, which shows how quickly we are buried by all the insignificance we put so much energy into (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[T.S. Ulmus]

Thank you for your thoughtful ramblings. Your thoughts spilled out and covered me with delightful goo, nothing makes me happier.

[Ankita Dwivedi]

A powerful write. 'all across the desperate plane'. Really love the imagery.

[AJNJ]

A truly deep and powerful statement on the futility of the efforts of man. We are created and destroyed and created again but do we leave a mark upon this constantly forming, un-forming universe? Everything said and done now has been said and done a zillions times before under this same very sun. So arent we but dust that once sent into dust was and will be used a zillion times for the same purpose?