Marble Wheel

These marble wheels turn over dirt,

A thousand years it seems I’ve worked,

But always with the same simple words

Emitting from this earthlings churning,

Thoughtfully burning brain, straining

To proclaim an original view of this playing

Field, and wield a sword of reason

Smithed not of steel or iron, but of the

Fire itself that melts and molds such items,

Invention to parry the attempts of redemption

Against the process of progression, My intentions

May not be so holy, but the goal remains the same,

To stretch the boundaries, Break free of sounding

Out of tune, and rise above the competition

Like a sun splitting the horizon, Circling,

Circumventing everything.

But these Marble Wheels just turn over dirt,

And My dreams are idle, wildly imaginative,

Impossible and draining. Bleeding my time away

These veins dry up and weaken, crack then snap

Off like twigs underneathe a bigger figure’s foot,

A secondthought, background noise caught up

In the harmony, the rhythm of an otherworldly

Symphony with no sympathy for me,

Not even a glimpse of its glory to restore

What faith I had left that dreams meant more

Than acting out stories concocted with cycles

Intertwining, netting the surface, dimensions

Defined, and Images begin to bind behind

A blind eye, One could see these marble wheels

Flying ‘cross the sky, were I wise enough to paint

The possibilities bright enough. All would fold

Under the weight, and bow to my greatness.

Alas. Such sorcery is far from these fingertips,

The ideas slip between the intricate cracks,

Filter back through and look entirely new,

Unrelated, but in truth recycled like a raindrop,

A solitary dollop, cohesive and viscous

Despite all resistance, Gravity’s sentence

To return keeps those wheels turning,

While my marble wheel just turns over dirt.

A thousand years it seems I’ve worked,

And the same words keep lurking, swimming

In my head, despite my want to forget

All Words, All thought, All Wheels,

All are knotting and soon will beget

The loss of sense, for distraction comes

Whence I stop walking this path, and

Sit. Idle, upon my marble wheel turned

On its side. Useless but as a stump, to

Perch and ponder upon.