An inflexible foe,
You natter at my sensibilities,
A permanent companion
Whether wanted or not.
I despise you
Though I do not say it.
I revile you
Though my secret’s safe.
For to voice such concerns
Are to air them
And aired thoughts
Can be shattered.
I have no wish for such a splintering,
Such a fragmentation of me,
For time is precious.
We circle creation
In endless loops.
We, me, you and I are nothing,
Which worries me most
When I fear it soon shall
Their ferocity mirrored our own. Man for man, pound for pound, we tore into each other with a reckless abandon balanced only by the immovability of both. Stalemate.
Like deadlocked chess pieces all we had fought for had achieved nothing. Nothing!
Was this war at its worse were armies died without purpose? Or was that the purpose of war itself, to serve no purpose other than death? And for what? A field of lost flowers.
I walked away.
Sometimes their shouts of coward haunted me. Mostly not. It takes a braver man to see sense in the senseless than a fool to expound it.
From atoms, we sprung,
Carelessly drifting through space and time,
Light in the night,
This darkness ascending.
Shared, that’s what we are,
Shared pieces of a greater whole:
A little of you, a sprinkle of me,
A dash of remembrance
Without ever remembering
The one thing we should.
Assembled, I think, or hope, or pray,
Like toys on a production line
Just waiting for a child to choose us,
The atoms we spawned from
Seeking someone to steer them,
Point them in the right direction;
The direction we had,
From atoms assembled,
We make purpose
Where none is required.
From atoms assembled,
50 Word Stories: Last Thoughts
The cliffs, sheer to the point of vertiginous madness, met the waves in a crescendo of nature at its most powerful. Like a boxer on the ropes, the granite took a pummelling. How many years the liquid versus solid war had waged, who knew? She wondered how bones would fair?
The world rocks, I rock with it. A disproportionate wind shivers these bones and rattles these teeth, though the world beyond my seclusion appears calm. Life in a hammock I call it, suspended between birth and death, a precarious situation. Yet despite my reservations, I’ve no desire to climb off.
And though we welcomed them with arms open, a smile creasing our desperate faces, they shunned us.
And though we offered food, lodgings, the comforts of home, they spurned our genuine invitations.
And we regretted our recklessness, our hopes and shared loves.
Were they our children? What had we made?
Is it not in the nature of things to be broken. After all, in some unknown future, we are all broken down into the atoms we sprang from. Breaking and reforming is a part of existence we must come to terms with. Yet my heart will never repair from you.