It all depends on your point of view
|I had no soul,|
yet with form-
Existing somewhere between dimensions.
Wild and free and unspotted- that’s how I began;
yet with a knowledge that I had once lived,
composed of millions of particles:
Water + chemicals + heat + pressure gave me form.
Then, from the multitudes I was chosen,
And in seconds went through the transport to the surface.
For a time all is quiet.
Then the hits start coming.
Slow at first,
then faster and harder she pounds away,
the light of creation shining through, igniting her eyes.
The letters come at me from all angles, one by one-
As their impelling force tattoos and disfigures my face-
no, my entire body.
And as the lines fill, I start to sense some purpose to my existence.
Yet what am I?
Or merely some event that makes no sense
Until the clarifying power of CONTEXT illuminates
and gives me meaning.
Yet it is not content I that I strive for,
but a presence that will influence, regardless of what I represent.
Now the hits become less frequent, slowing… to…. a….. stop………
So I wait-
And I wait-
And I wait for what seems an eternity.
And I rest uneasy,
Feeling unfulfilled because I am without purpose.
Now a few letters smack away at me and the action stops again,
As I am removed and considered-
And far below I sense those that have led the way,
Their destinies tied to others of my kind,
Each different, yet every one an indispensable
Part of the whole creation.
Now I am crushed, and the pain of sudden uselessness
Is not felt so much as understood.
And I’m falling through the darkness,
landing and tumbling past those others whose faces I cannot see.
The writer stood and stretched her legs- then walked to the window,
leaving behind a wastebasket teeming with wadded papers,
the latest one tumbling to rest as it expanded a little, then stopped moving.