Scribbler

You are the sword.
They draw you out of your scabbard,
And there you swish your way through
Seas of white.
Leaving behind a trail,
Ever lasting.

You are a performer.
Dancing away upon a stage-
Mimicking the ways of a five petalled flower,
a hang man,
a house with one window and a door.

You are the authority.
Allowing actions to pass,
after your agreement.
After you,
constructions rise to attention,
and power grows.

You are the artist,
Yet prominently a rebel.
How your pieces travel.
On seats of buses,
windows of trains,
on walls of allies they say.

Only you are a scribbler.
In italics and bold,
You are so simple a piece.

Remember me when I’m gone.

Gone-
No longer existing.
Taking up space;
That really should belong to another.
But remember me.
Remember me well.
At the same time,
Remember,
That you have choice in life.

Try to remember
The embarrassments.
Silly mispronunciations.
The occasional slips;
That, bugger, I didn’t get away with.
After all,
Moments like those are one-and-only.
Perhaps in times like those
You’ll let out a good hearty crack,
And wonder why it all happened.

No action ever copied another;
No day could have ever precisely have been a previous.
No single person could ever replaced the space of another,
Even with the greatest of skill.
No.

But are there not exceptions?

For if the wind should suddenly blow,
We would fall to the earth;
Little pride, little hope, little cure.
Perhaps fall to the earth we shall,
And be us choked by manure, by the roots of nature?
Or be it actually just our own naivety and woodenness?
Would we be there forever?
Under towering plants who try to grow, higher.
The sun shall set and the moon will rise,
We know we can not stay lying there forever.
Surely, could we fall any lower
With this earth already under us?
Fall, we shall not.
But be not afraid, and burrow even lower.
Feel strength, feel sense, feel secure.
May we be trodden upon;
To be handled with care.
We let it happen, but we don’t know why we do that.
That tree we see there, the one we relied on so much;
For our orders, for our advice, for our structure.
Now we see it obeying mother natures order;
Growing wiser by the day, but not any weaker.
Indeed, we shall but grow, too, taller and mightier,
Along with everything else that is there.
With more respect, perhaps,
Even knowledge- may it be in existence.
We are but replicas of the tree now.
Towering above many we may be; yet there is more
To face, to learn, to endure.
Little have we seen and been through,
Though what may seem forever now, is almost never.
For who knows what may happen tomorrow.
Shall the tree that was always there in the first place,
Be gone? Moved on a further?
Or may spring have wakened again?
Bringing along with it life more green than before.
We are but a forest, after what we have been through;
How have we grown? We are
Entwined, accepted, a part of nature.
But if only we knew,
What would it be like if the darling buds of spring had never been?
Where would the precious souls have disappeared to?
We are loved because we are who we are.
We are looked up to by those who see what we have grown up to be.
We bloom to show the world what is in us.
There are those who think that we aren’t always going to be,
they’d be wrong.

For we are always going to be, blooming.