RETURN THE SLAB

I scrub things clean with a sponge and I am but a concrete slab passed from hand to hand.

I absorb nothing but a bolt of lightning will surely crash me into two.

These extremities of circumstance seem to only do.

The sponge absorbs the minerals and flow of the liquid.

For me?

It just takes time to be smooth.

When the world feels a bit cryptic.

Yet with every hand that touches me something feels engraved.

The water will not wither it away as fast as the next chisel defaces me.

I know everything of me is heavy but the more etched my stone the smaller I become and my sense of self becomes unknown.

I’m unsure if I’ll ever be thrown far enough but I could easily break every glass barrier before me I’m sure of it.

Please, may I be sat by a stream and be weathered down to not know these carvings.

May I feel these words so long bound to me become less deep.

May the river bed just consume these markings of…

Burden, chaos and obstruction until I am rendered new.