Thursday, May 1, 2014

Stones Like Cooked Wood (Poetic Prose)

A pile of barren rocks that look intentionally placed that way by Mother Nature herself.
The desolate landscape I found.
Stones like cooked wood litter the lifeless landscape below my aching feet. They bite. But on I tread...searching, seeking. One foot after another. Mountain peaks, triumphant and complete, mock me from two angles. They are finished and I am not: the bottom of the barrel, where X meets Y, brand new. I am a wanderer with no master who longs to learn the truth in a vacuum of solitude. Impossible goals make men suffer, wear them down around the edges, weather their skin, and purify their hearts. There must be others like me, and this thought, this faith, keeps me plodding along, discontent with the petty distractions, the death shields that remain behind me. They're grindstone distractions. Persisting. For a while. Useful. In a way. Until they too are worn down to the same as the stones at my feet, stones like cooked wood.

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  1. Coming from Montana, I know these stones and hikes. And I miss them. The solitude of walking through glacial desolation is a BIG feeling. Perfect silence to expand into.

    I dig the last line: "Persisting. For a while. Useful. In a way. Until they, too, are worn down to the same as the stones at my feet, stones like cooked wood."

    Good rhythm. I don't know what a death shield is, though. That's the only place I got caught up.

    Is that picture of Japan?


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