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The Little Brick That Was

Poetry By: parkelis
True confessions

What do you hear as you rest your head against brick? Do you listen to its story of the years that have escaped its grasp?

Submitted:Jun 13, 2011    Reads: 47    Comments: 6    Likes: 2   

Upon closer visual inspection alone,
Too much is already said.
Nonetheless, I roll my fingers
Along the path of
Once rigid-ness.
Porous like the flailing Porifera,
Cracked like an ever-dissipating, crashing plate,
Elevated like the highs and lows of the dynamic Appalachian range,
You remain no longer the sessile, intact, leveled brick-beauty
Of once, perfect ruby appearance
You were delivered as.
Age: youth, lost;
coarseness of adolescence, nowhere to be found.
Though time has caused much evaporation
Of personal possessions from your grasp,
Through all that has left,
Something did indeed find its way
To you.
You have gained the quality all fellow, neighboring bricks desire:
To be recognized as a home,
Rather than the makings
Of an aesthetically pleasing house.
You have grown in years,
With apparent gray and white whiskers
Here and there,
But you have come
Into your own distinct texture
And your own unique path.


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