04-15-2016, 03:27 AM
War
There was a clever man,
who pushed a boulder up
a steep hill wreathed in clouds.
The rock he labored with
was heavier than the sky,
the old giant balanced
upon his shoulders.
As the man walked,
his feet would sink
into the ground with each step,
leaving a trail behind:
the familiar contour of this journey.
Rolled onto the apex, the rock
would be at rest, and the man at peace.
For whatever reason, or for no reason
as the boulder crested the hill,
it would always slip out of control
like a secret held in confidence.
Each time gaining more momentum
on its way down,
like sparks that leap from the fire pit
to consume the house, leaving
all within tasting ashes.
Then as sun follows moon follows sun
in the blinding repetition of days,
the man would push the boulder
up a steep hill.
There was a clever man,
who pushed a boulder up
a steep hill wreathed in clouds.
The rock he labored with
was heavier than the sky,
the old giant balanced
upon his shoulders.
As the man walked,
his feet would sink
into the ground with each step,
leaving a trail behind:
the familiar contour of this journey.
Rolled onto the apex, the rock
would be at rest, and the man at peace.
For whatever reason, or for no reason
as the boulder crested the hill,
it would always slip out of control
like a secret held in confidence.
Each time gaining more momentum
on its way down,
like sparks that leap from the fire pit
to consume the house, leaving
all within tasting ashes.
Then as sun follows moon follows sun
in the blinding repetition of days,
the man would push the boulder
up a steep hill.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson