All my days have been written
In your book
Before any came to be
And then you gave me
The chisel and a hammer
To carve them out
From the silence of a boulder
I am weighed down
By the gravel in my pockets
Dust mingles with sweat
I can no longer see
Or hear anything
But the incessant clashes
Of dull metal against my bones
Oh, what I would do
For a gentle rain
Not for my arid throat
Or calloused fingers
But to wash over the stone
So I can look
For signs of hope
Of a shape
Emerging
©2008 Dosia McKay
