Unwilling, I have clung to this rock.
It is wedged firmly against a hardened thing.
Betwixt the two, I’m ground to fibers,
What random weave will friction bring?
Any strand can be laced along
the loom and shuttle to weave it strong.
But what pattern, form, or function known?
Leave me here… I’ll grind alone.
Immutable, the rock I hold.
It is solitude… a lonely road.
The hardened thing? Those I know.
Recovery has come and gone.
I want them to want me,
but they seem to not care.
I want them to be people of character,
an ethos they do not share.
So, here I am, grinding alone.
Between the hardest thing,
and the stone, is home.
© All rights reserved, 2017.
Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.