I raise the pick-axe high up above my head.
I bring it back down with all my might.
I hear an audible thud at it pierces into the ground.
I change my grip.
The soil turns over as I pry it out of the ground.
I smile to myself in satisfaction at the sight of the churning soil.
It is a calm, soothing sight, worth the magnitude of the effort required to produce it.
I change grips as I ready myself and raise the pick-axe high up above my head once more.
I am the artist,
the Earth my canvas.
The pick-axe is my brush,
the chaos my muse.
Seeds will be sown
and vegetation will be grown.
Spoils will be shared
and cheer will be spread.
But for all the good that is done,
I am the one having all the fun,
for this sight is for me,
this art is my own.
Digging the ground is surprisingly soothing. And extremely tiring. But worth the effort, all the same.
You counseled me to "Tear down this house"
Because I Love you
I'm taking your advice
Tearing it down
I'll start from the outside
And work my way in
People will stop and stare
"Another crazy person" they'll observe
"He's gone mad" they'll whisper as I break down the walls
"He's a fool" they'll note as I bring down the chimney
"He's lost" they'll gossip as I break the foundation
"Stay away from him" they'll warn as I sit in the rubble
"Were they right all along" I'll ask again and again
"Did I make a mistake"
"Did I burn my life on a whim"
"How do I know"
"Is it possible to know"
It's a lonely place this one
In the ruins
Tired and hungry
Gathering energy to dig
With the Pickaxe You gave me at birth
This poem was inspired by a poem written by Rumi called "The Pickaxe"
— The End —