November 13, 2015 admin No comments exist


The tools were simple
but we never mocked them.
There was nothing to compare.
Those stones gave us life.

In shattering and skinning
we loosened the vital flesh
that nourished brave bones,
helped us find shelter, rest.

The toolmakers are now dead.
A user grips something
with fresh trepidation
not knowing who made it.

Or why or what exactly
it might do or cause.
Of course it must be used,
by God it was bought.


Poet’s Notes ####

If you feel strongly about this poem, leave a comment below!
(I won’t delete rude comments, I’ll just reuse them in a poem — with attribution. ;-))

The image of the initial draft can be seen here:

new doc 27_1

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Toolmakers 1

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