The Wrinkled Log

There it is, the orphan log,

Stone dead,

Waiting for the extinction,

Lying on the earth’s bed.

 

Got detached from the frame,

Long ago,

None discerns that instant,

Nor anyone bothers to.

 

Wrinkled it is more than before,

Each line does point toward time,

And the recklessness!

Of those partners in crime.

 

Couldn’t survive in complete form,

Yet keeps its wheel of struggle moving on,

Letting the greatest beings know, 

Of what they have done!

 

The miserable log can scarcely fight,

Against nature that it’s a part of,

The malicious bugs and the mystic air conspire,

 And the log waits for a message as the rain falls from above.