My 11th trisect—And pure metaphor, apparently. Segment one depicts the word, or more specifically the morpheme. Segment two depicts the line, as in a line of poetry. And segment three depicts the process of writing poetry. Talk about abstract.
craft
rock
pressed in ancient beds of granite, slate and limestone,
latent meaning morphs through dreamless sleep,
eventually to break the rolling waves and rise
from out the heavy hollows of the deep.
eons steadily reveal
frameworks laid beneath the ground,
raw potentials long concealed.
rugged hands reflect on broken bits of earth,
weathered through millenniums of doubt,
and dimly sense potentials waiting undiscerned,
conceptions to be learned and reasoned out.
soon flames are tamed in hearthstone mounds,
grains are pounded into meal,
and slings are armed with small gray rounds.
artifacts
barrows seal the homes where bones return to dust;
dolmens house the disembodied dead—
expressions raised to honor dear departed blood,
conveyed throughout millenniums of dread.
boundaries birth a web of walls,
stretched throughout diverse terrain,
enclosing keeps and township halls.
hallowed chambers echo whispers, murmured rites.
columns vault gray shadows to a haze,
and effigies defy the cruelties of time
amid the slow decline of ancient ways.
castles rise on golden plains
and mountain palaces enthrall
ridge tops in the sunset’s wane.
trace
ages past are carved and mortared into place,
stacked against the ravages of wear,
impressions left to echo long forgotten days
across the centuries of grueling care.
quarries reach through hidden lodes
for raw materials to build
nascent hopes and strong abodes.
waters feed the ducts of resolute invention,
wind buffets walls of praise and grave regret,
towers guard their gates from sinister intention,
bridges keystone over streams and vales. and yet
each rigid monument of skill
brick by stone in time erodes,
erasing every act of will.