A Chiseling Life

                                                                            Poem# 1

Life is a block of wood; a carver models it into the best but at an old age-when one becomes perfectly experienced. Every drill and grill is a tick of torment to life. It gashes to a perfectly imperfect time of life. And we start over again in the next life.

A carver lost in chiseling the wood;

Modeling it into the finest,

He, himself carefully carves into.

As I look at him,

And my life rolls down:

The creaks of sculpting a block

While removing jarring angles

 Etch a torment.

Are those pains impass of life?

Life mills to live,

It’s a fume out of crumble and splinter.

Every bit a loss and gain!

This act recurs,

And flusters like the hollow wood resonant.

On a course;

There is no sojourn to emotive and bodily fidgets.

Often, the disquiet chronic writ large on the mark;

The happiness or silence-hung grim all around

They were free of beginnings or ends,

They unfold in myriad ways,

One likes to live a life, careless and free,

But the player lot is on the line;

Come to clutches with it, be a slave of it.

These forms to befit a good mortal

Like the crafter fits the pieces

Yet, this good human is qualified

When at old age is unqualified,

And ends very near like a child,

Then falls bodily asleep.

How many times do we hear creaks?

How many times do we crumble and splinter?

How many times are we milled?

To hope for?

We never are finest how many times?

As novice new voyages embark

And get down to chiseling all over again,

 To slice life in the life of a new beginning!