Friday, June 12, 2009

Nothing disgusts a stone

For he’s a stalwart, stout, withstander
Never does the stone meander
Staying put in calm repose
Letting rain pour down his nose
He sits still un-phased all day,
Or moves if moving’s made his way.

Such tolerance does Peter show,
(I’ve named him that to slake my woe
It doesn’t work, in fact it’s worse
His character becomes a curse)

Such tolerance, I say, he flaunts
That he my tangled soul behaunts
Leaving me in such a state
I’m driven to enumerate
As though in Jeremiahs wake
My moaning qualms of stomach ache.

In silly couplets to and fro
I crane my neck and curl my toe
To make the words repeat their sounds
Like barking mad and hungry hounds

But back to Peter ugh! The stone,
The things that sitting all alone
Exhibits not a jot of pain
Bearing stiff and strong his frame
Drowning, burning, freezing, all:
Nothing does the stone appal

Housed in thickness to the core,
Still as a photo, what a bore!
But how I envy him the more,
For all his bland unthinking ways,

At least he doesn’t scream or shout
Or fail at life and freeze in doubt
For he is always frozen still
Can act for neither good nor ill
I see him on this window sill
Or anywhere, he is as cool,
As empty as the dumbest fool

With frogs and worms asquirm beneath
Or hurled by children on the beach
Its all as nothing to this ball
Whose elegance is very small
Or lacking, yes, its not at all!

Indeed the poor thing doesn’t own
A single virtue, quick or prone,
There’s not an ounce of life inside
His rough and weathered lichened hide
He might just envy me in turn
As I have life, can love and learn
While he has nothing you could burn
Nothing giving joy or pain
His life’s the same again, again
As every moment forever more
Is just the same as the one before.

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