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Cement Trucks

In the end it was too slow, afflicted by either age or illness or simply distracted, flew head first into the eye of a headlight. Flung contorted, neck bent back, snapped of life, it died clumped on a verge. Rewound to its first flight, its brief existence traced untold scribblings across time and the space stretched between these tall trees. No record remains. A full stop is placed here on this muddy shoulder, the end to something which, only a moment ago, flickered through the circuits of a living brain. It leaves nothing but a small hole and progeny ignorant of history. Whatever flowering form that bloomed here grew in the blind reaches beyond knowing, no more than a short awakening programmed by its kind, an expendable part fed into the machinery through which all life churns. Chance had my way intersect this point and dab thought upon thought to stem the bleed. No balm soothes the wounds of this crumpled mess. Cement trucks rumble by moved by the need to fill an empty space, as these words try to do.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2022




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Date: 9/8/2022 3:52:00 PM
Life is precious, is all around us, and I have to believe, is known and watched by a heavenly Father to whom all of this makes sense. And you caught a glimpse of this divine tragedy, and captured it in a mournful, beautiful way that points, through compassion, towards the hope at the end of this grand play.
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Paul Willason
Date: 9/9/2022 7:00:00 PM
Appreciate yr comments Jeff. Hard to imagine though that the heavenly father was the driver. Odds favour chance. Compassion is the key and the rest, who knows. Kind regards.