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- Just keep digging, digging, digging.
- Dirt still falling, falling, falling.
- Top keeps rising, rising, rising.
- Voice still calling, calling, calling.
- Hole keeps growing, growing, growing.
- Arms still aching, aching, aching.
- Sweat keeps dripping, dripping, dripping.
- Legs still shaking, shaking, shaking.
- Eyes keep fighting, fighting, fighting.
- Lungs still gasping, gasping, gasping.
- Heart keep trying, trying, trying.
- Voice still rasping, rasping, rasping.
- Fingers clawing, clawing, clawing.
- Muscles stinging, stinging, stinging.
- Ears keep ringing, ringing, ringing.
- Just keep digging, digging, digging.
- Weak and might, dim and bright.
- Peace and fight, day and night.
- Loose and tight, dark and light.
- Walk and flight, black and white.
- Black and white are simple, see?
- Wrong for you, and right for me.
- Black and white’s an easy choice,
- Helps to justify my voice.
- Black and white are options two:
- Yours is false, and mine is true.
- Black and white’s a myth, okay?
- ’Cause inbetween’s a tonne of grey.
- Accepting grey develops love.
- No one beneath, no one above.
- Just side by side in common goal.
- In mind, and might, and heart, and soul.
- Climbed the mountain one more time, a desert found instead.
- Drawing deep from in the well, its water long since dead.
- Wand’ring to and running fro, for water and for bread,
- Starving, thirsty, seeking with a mouth all cracked and bled.
- Compass pointing to the north, and south, and east, and west.
- Rhombus—once a square—appears, askew and quite compressed.
- Soul and body, once nourished, now nothing to digest
- Standing, sitting—kneeling, too—collectively confess.
- A grip, a shake, a sign, a name; a swipe across the brow;
- A leaf, a cup, an ear, a tree; a drop atop the crown.
- Hearken. Yes. A bowing head. Hands up, and then hands down.
- Climbing up, and to the core, once smiling, now a frown.
- Watching from the valley great the mountain as it falls:
- Gold and silver, brass and clay, demolished by a ball.
- No warning shout, no sounding trump, no watchmen on the wall.
- Like a thief in darkest night, the stealth will shock us all.
- Comfort in the shadows dark, but longing for the sun.
- Try—again—to find some rest, yet itching for a run.
- Wallowing in soothing mud, but desperate for a bath.
- Labouring for footsteps pure while on the dusty path.
- Scrubbing hard these crimson clothes to make them snowy white,
- Yet in the brightness of the day, impatient for pitch night.
- Attracted to the beauty, yet the ugly pulls the heart:
- The comfort of the thorny crown, the sweetness of the tart.
- A step ahead, a step right back, retreat, and then advance.
- Hide. Go seek. Tag, I’m it. A familiar dance.
- Your whole self in, your whole self out, then turn yourself around.
- Once was blind, now cannot see; once lost, no longer found.
- Flying to space while anchored to ground
- Wishing for silence but drawn to the sound
- Sailing the ocean while anchored to bay
- Wanting to shout with nothing to say
- Climbing a mount yet nowhere to hold
- Craving for heat but frozen in cold
- Running a race yet stuck in your stance
- Hoping to rest but forced to still dance
- Eating a feast with no dish in sight
- Longing to love but desparate to fight
- Swimming the lake with feet on the shore
- Aching for less while settling for more
- The striking of flint on the cold, toughened steel.
- The crushing of leaves under hard, booted heel.
- The pounding of waves on the soft, golden sand.
- The scraping of wind over dry, barren land.
- The wearing of chalk on the smooth, weathered slate.
- The squealing of hinge swinging rusty, old gate.
- The grinding of teeth on crisp, tender food.
- The scratching sandpaper over rough, troubled wood.
- The smoothing of iron on wrinkled, creased fold.
- The scorching of fire ’round raw, filthy gold.
- The seconds tick slowly by, each one into the next,
- Bringing in another wave, with seeming no effect.
- But seconds turn to hours, and hours turn to days,
- Then weeks, and months, and years go by, and time does get its way.
- The strongest stone, erect and sure, so firmly on the shore
- Starts losing once the first wave hits—won’t ever win the war.
- Those waves pound on, day in and out, unstopped by human hand;
- That rock, so sound and true, becomes a beach of conquered sand.
- The water starts—just one small drop—down the mountain side.
- Joining with some others now, a trickle starts to glide.
- It forges on, ’round roots and rocks, push grains and specks aside.
- Leaves smooth and easy trails behind for coming drops as guides.
- As time goes on—the years crawl by—that trickle takes no rest.
- It carved a scar so long and deep upon the mountain’s breast.
- That trickle was a brook one day, a creek, and then a stream.
- And now a river it’s become, a mighty force it seems.
- Humming bees, singing birds, the sun high in the sky.
- A burning fire, deep and old, within the heart did lie.
- A sojourn in the desert land, maturing of a rose.
- Returning home, out again, the grassland he had chose.
- There he planted, firm and sure, growing as an oak.
- Some bending here and swaying there, but not even once had broke.
- Then to the mount to seek the light, one day he felt to try.
- He made the climb, found the light, descended, said goodbye.
- But then, a flash! He buckled down: smitten, beaten, sore.
- He gasped for breath—bruised, in pain—and begged from on the floor.
- No one came, no helping hand—just abandoned and alone.
- And there he sat, for weeks and months, forgotten, as a stone.
- No humming bees. No singing birds. No light to linger on.
- Just fire, soap, chaff, and dross. The pearl, in darkness, gone.
