The Woodwork Shop
The sounds from the woodwork shop kept pounding in my ears, drilling and knocking from the timeless machine spilling irritating sounds into solid air. I zoom them out as I walk about but the wind kept spinning them around, and the clueless rhythm from the church hymn kept chiming in from within.
It is the tolling of the bell you hear when some on is dead, one life is gone and a new life spring fourth at dawn. Spring is flowering around with a message from the throne, and the light above the dark is shining from within. Four scores and more they linger about on the shore moving around in the same spot with all the courage they have got. The steps are gets bigger and the strides are getting longer and the wind sits on top of the mill counting the distance.
The sounds from the woodwork shop are winding down and the Petri dish is sitting on the ground. Perspirations is oozing out of my flesh and the unforgiving sun is pouring out a strange heat that is dancing about my feet, with a sweltering message fold up inside and dignity planted by my side.
The men walking about the woodwork shop with their manly pride still looking for a suitable bride. Boisterous laughter floating in the air banging on their merciless ears. Those men have stood the test of time looking for what is divine and digging in the core of the wood carving out patterns on bed head, table top and kitchen cabinets.
Day breaks with a bang and bedtime begins with an endless drilling musical song. Nighttime order is taller and daytime sound is louder. If you are not used to it, it will drive you up a storm with no one to keep you calm, and if you are a lazy soul you will perish under it. Robust men without a sexual identity buried their head between their legs looking for the slightest opportunity to be wed but they will make their mama cry because they have found a same sex bride.
Their mind is filled with promiscuity, and the crowd is missing out on every opportunity and so the drilling and knocking continues to disturb my peaceful meditation, this is not a commercial zone but it is stuck in the middle of town.
The beguiling figure at the wood work shop lay in wait on the passersby. He is tall and skinny and walks around looking pitiful and dirty. He has a hoody on his head and he looks like someone has been resurrected from the dead and dancing to an annoying rhythm that is spilling from his head. He too is in search of an identity and he is wrapped up with his own sexuality. He beguiles the passersby with the biggest lies pouring out of the sky. He hangs around all day rubbing the same piece of wood that has led him astray.
He keeps talking but he doesn’t understand, and the little boys hanging around him mocking him with a seamless grin. He mimics my actions and nullifies my reaction. He hustle bags of saw dust to buy food that’s all he could prove, but the dust from the wood has enter his lungs and from the looks of things, his days are done. The woodwork shop has served its time and destiny will set it on fire and return what is mine.
Copyright © Christine Phillips | Year Posted 2021
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