Poem: Rest

gears

Rest

There is no rest.
The steel is strong, forged in fire,
made hard and ready, and yet
each turn of the wheel wears away
invisible slivers. Steel dust accumulates,
adds to the grind,

for there is no rest.
No time to rest.
To clean away the dangerous debris.
It becomes steel against steel,
self against self,
the most implacable foe.
an inevitable and slow suicide
without rest.

There is no rest.

About this poem

We all need rest. Few of us take it, preferring somehow to deal more with consequences than maintenance.

Tom