Its amazing how you were created
You are fashioned in all forms
No matter how you are carved
Or how you are assembled
People would call you names in their own tongues
Yet it would always point to one description
A creation which would carry another being

Sold as an ornament or gift
Crafted for a definite purpose
Your kind has its own hierarchy
Some of your brothers are structured
Jewelled and heavily garmented
Thrones for Kings and Queens
For popes, for presidents, for healers
For seers, for future tellers who know
Nothing of your future
You are the loyal companion
Of the beggars on the side walk
Who were abandoned by time
Who have forgotten the scent of night
And the taste of daylight
Tall, small, midget like humans you have
Your own variation

You are not confined to one place
You exist in the dark gloomy movie houses
Where lovers make use of you as their a hiding place
A secret sanctuary where both could cuddle
Feed each other, lips to lips hiding
From the scrutiny of the envious or jealous eyes
Sometimes one of the lovers force the other
Unknowingly forcing you to be a bed

I see you as a long railway
In the hospital's hallway
Stationed on each wall
Like guardians of a dreary temple
Where the anxious, the worried,
The wounded and those who look after them
Find solace by resting their tired being on you

Yes you as a creation or an artwork
Lived to serve a purpose
Of carrying the weight of another being
No matter how heavy they are,
You took your task silently without complaining
They would not really care if their weight
Is several folds more than yours

Sometimes in a pub or a joint
In the midst of a heated debate or discussion
Debaters would extend their debates to a gruesome duel
They would use you as their weapon
Like soldiers engaged in an old time war
You are both the shield and bayonet
They hurt their enemies by pounding your being unto them
They raise you and use you to cover their faces, their bodies
To protect them from empty wine bottles
Aimed like daggers
Rage has defeated their mercy
When the war is over, like most casualties
Your being is left mutilated, broken and scattered
Seldom that someone would care to mend you

Only time can forge of what you will become
Some may preserve you like fruits or vegetable
Drowned in special liquid, imprisoned in a bottle
Or like beggars, you will be left out in the open
To withstand the seething cold of winter
To be soaked under the scorching sunlight of summer

You will grow old like beggars who would lost
Their upright gait, like a ballerina who can no longer dance
Tchaikovsky because of a fractured limb
Wrinkles will line your once perfect
Smooth, and fine surface
Your being will no longer be crisp
Like freshly picked cucumber sprayed with morning dew
Rust will not be your illness, as it is the cancer for metal
But you will die to serve another purpose in your final days
You will become the sustenance for fire
For it to give life to flames
And the embers of your decay, your ash
Will be a dark reminder of your existence

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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