Our Carriage Propeller
“It's minutest strand is not in our hands."
We traverse the day,
Our engines set in motion and fuelled by it,
We retire to bed,
Like a parked vehicle,
All our mechanisms come to a halt,
Oblivious of anything else,
We switch to another world,
A door is opened,
A part of us walks through it,
Our vehicles rev up by its fuel,
After a transient sojourn,
Our vehicles are set in
motion for another adventure,
We move and race with time,
On and on,
Over and over,
The parts become weak,
The joints go out of place,
We repair, replace and reassemble,
Until it finally stops,
It breaks down completely,
It has fulfilled its purpose.
February 24, 2022.
F Form - Free Verse - New Poetry Contest
Constance La France
Life
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