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 © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2022
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