The Whittling

whittling 001

By M’Shai S. Dash

Time lives only
to melt people back into earth
Rushing onward, pressing downward
An ocean unto itself
liquefying skin
and firm, sturdy breasts
Tiring the wild, fickle beasts
fluctuating behind bosoms
and hastening dull rot from within.
Yet ‘tis time tempers minds
by whittling away at pride
carving deeply into
the white of its wood
Whittling until
all arrogance and folly
lay in wispy spirals
about its feet
and the smooth and polished soul remains.

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