Purpose is as unsure as the jagged
And tired metaphore of the life-pyramid:
Climbed high upon and tumbled from.
Always more tragic than necessary.
Slow descents are often paved each
By a desire so fervent to create,
To shape and rip from chaos
An ongoing vista of occasional peace.
In both seas and deserts of tiny bricks
Swim curses and gifts as a reminder to flavor
The reality that little gold lies patiently
On the picked-over surfacescape.
The gold lies where you are afraid to look,
Where the brickyard beasts come to call.
Where your best answer will always be:
Here I am. It is me. Do your worst.
-- Copyright ©2007 by Adam Foust (2007/01/13)
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