A stone in tepid water,
Sits plainly on a lake’s floor,
Laying secluded among others,
That pebble yearns for more.
It dreams of days with hurricanes,
And nights that drown the sky.
It seeks for lovelorn miseries,
Or just the need to yell and cry.
That stagnant pool,
Has no ripples, fish, weeds or even mud.
Time there is steady,
Naked of action,
A cut without blood.
A stone in tepid water,
Envies those that nest upon the shore,
It longs for the waves,
That would toss it about,
Or to feel fiery rush of heat,
When the sun is stout.
That stone in tepid water,
Knows that he is
weary,
Tired of wading
through his being,
Done with the
numbness,
And the lack of
all feeling.
Stricken of
humanity,
Senses dead, and
corked,
Stuck in an eternity
of emptiness,
Where he’s
become that stone,
That void,
That corpse.
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