I am a playful rock.
Silly stocked upon some shelf.
Layers telling you that I am not new.
But old wore and hard as a rock.
I had one bottle to let me go.
Or flow.
I had one choice.
The only ones I ever took.
I was a rock.
Rough or smooth or iridescent or nothing ,
As you walked upon me.
I pushed some flowers down.
Coming up through the heavy beams
I was your pet.
Playful and obscene.
Painted and then not.
I was a rock.
Asking silent forgiveness.
I was calmed by certain shores.
Over years.
I was sick in the middle.
Though you will never know!
I was again some graceful contempt,
clutched by teeth of claws or pins of hate
I was a no name.
Like a rock.
Held so high on wood tables.
Built by feeble boys.
And ravens thirst for water.
And crows who want the same.
All bottled up in square terrariums.
I was your rock, without beginning or end.
Without some purging minds.
I was all you needed to know.
I was the sand.
Running on like tired hands.