Monday, April 06, 2015

Once the Sculptor 
dropped the chisel 
and the hammer;
He heaved a sigh 
And humbly smiled.
For he knew his creation
will one day, crumble;
And it could be when
he still has a pulse.
Or, when he had
fulfilled his purpose.
That dawn, all sorrow
would turn to joy.
When the resting
and he would rise 
to meet the Risen.


Between the curtains,
Under the table,
Beneath the cot,
Inside the dried up
overhead tank,
Under the staircase,
Behind the couch,
Atop the roof or
Tucked into an attic.
We all had our own fort
where even the sun sought
our permission to seep in.
Our kingdom where
we reigned and
found refuge;
And then came Time;
The sly intruder to mess up the order.
Slipped right through us
When we seldom
had a clue.
Greasing our grips
and loosening our fists
From the gates
Of innocence and imagination;
And we outgrew those spaces that contained us.
Alas, for many,
the forts remained.
The walls:
Built around us
with our minds.
we had our hiding place some place else.
we conveniently hide within ourselves.