Am I somewhere in a place of time,
where a dried up rock tends to survive?
If there's a limit for everything,
then why is one rock bigger than another?
A rock does not grow, that much I know,
It is a creation, formed by Mother Nature's force.
Yet, the ones that have scars are visible to sight,
for they've been cracked in their own space of time.
Like you and me, it can be separated and left all alone,
for if it thrives near water, it can drown in one swallow.
Where does it go from there, when it cannot float?
Some bottomless pit, or some muddy lands,
where it can no longer breath the air for survival?
So it will sit there, in a place where all is lifeless,
a place where hell dwells and suffocates existence.
Though in this place, darkness covers day and night,
there's still a chance it is not that deep beneath the surface,
that a hand cannot reach and pull it out of its misery.
One hand clenching it to another, what a splendid discovery!
It can be Nature's hands deciding the rock's belonging,
with her magical affection, it can dissolve its somber,
and form a shape of its choice to help it glide along.
Given the chance, it will find the right grounds,
a place where it can feel a somewhat belonging,
where it can see the sun's rays and the moon's glow,
for only life can awaken the rock's existence,
allow it to mend from its own creation in time,
and finally feel at ease with the gift of peace.
Yana Petkov
Scarlett "The Real Me"
11th October 2006
