I changed from plastic and ink, to wood and graphite;
To add some new texture,
And to seek fresh tones.
Glyphs on ancient bones,
An old pictogram picture,
Old tools and symbols – have given modern insight.
Carved within, the fine wooden grains of my pencil;
I saw the adventure, of something inconsequential…
Driftwood floating upon the sea;
Attempting to engrave its own path,
Through the waves of eternity.
Immersed in the liquid dispersed,
In the aqueous flow of infinity;
Steadily the timber revised its draft,
Constant correction a necessity.
Under the light and dark, it drifted along,
Passed by many different cultural ships.
Once part of a friend ship – it was strong,
Misfortune gave it a new portion.
Like the echoes of a melancholy song,
Each wave cracks, the sounds of whips.
In ebony and ivory, can mahogany belong?
It was unsure, from which tree it descends;
So, the entire ocean it had adopted.
In the state of loneliness, with so few friends;
Moon, Sun - the celestial sphere was its only boon.
Studious, still – there is so little it comprehends.
For social solace it unwillingly opted;
Like, a poet forced, into the company of pens.
The plank had been soaked, to the core,
Its composition was continuously rotting;
The condition of a heavily trafficked floor.
Still, remaining firm in the course of its will;
Despite the erosion, its heart was pure.
Tossed and turned, but forward plotting,
Its way to the (currently) unseen shore.
Each incoming torrent was a bitter test,
Nature sent storms and tempests;
Many new trials faced, which it must best.
Dreaming of distant golden sands gleaming.
It was drifting, with little sign of rest –
Salts, searing wounds – sodium pests;
And little hope, in which it could invest.
The azure scenery did not seem to change,
And it wondered, if there was any progression;
As it stared out, into the ebbing blue range.
Hopelessness, it embraced – in the endlessness.
Until, the wood detected something strange;
Within the continuity, a subtle digression.
Its feelings, like the form – slowly rearrange…
…As the movements and moments transition,
The broken lumber perceived a new position;
Now it was drawing close – almost in reach,
And could see the shore, of Nirvana’s beach.
Composed By: A. D.