Well worn, the bricks aren't solid colour,
Their standard terracotta insides show,
Hinting at many dark, obsessive hours
Spent painting yellow the miles long road.
Who laid out your chaotic cobblestones,
Your impossible looking layout,
Bending thoughts away from a need to rest,
Casting the surrounding beauty in doubt.
After all, there is nothing but this road,
This winding way through hills and growling woods,
Whose path must not be left; Can not be left,
'Til an end that must be reached for ill or good.
In the distance, I see the tower
And all that lies between us on the way.
I see the man; the tattered, bandaged man,
With his paper crown and skin stained grey.
I see the puddles of rusty rain,
Set to stain these worn white shoes ruby red.
I see him crouched, brush in hand, stroking the bricks
'Til he would deem every yellowed stone repaired.
Whose path must not be left; Can not be left,
ReplyDelete'Til an end that must be reached for ill or good.
Dark and lovely write--
This really interesting, putting together these two writers never would have occurred to me. Very creative, very deep and profound depths plumbed. The symbolism eludes me a little, though I appreciate the intimation of meanings almost undefinable. Excellent writing.
ReplyDelete"Well worn, the bricks aren't solid colour,
ReplyDeleteTheir standard terracotta insides show" love this, feel almost sorry for a brick or a person. well done.
i felt like you really transported me with this piece... the colors are excellent.
ReplyDelete