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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.
