Slice 117 of 365
This doesn’t feel quite right, it feels rushed and definitely not thought out or refined but it’s what I was feeling so let’s call it a work in progress.
The Bench Stands Still
Steam from the stack,
Rising high into the blue,
The infant oak bench watches,
The new iron giant change the world.
Diesel now on the track,
Wood burning no longer new,
The bench, having its share of notches,
Spies the streamliners unfurled.
Now as fast as a bullet,
People rush, rush, rush,
The old bench never moved an inch,
Not for a lack of will.
The worn bench, used often as a pulpit,
Been alone all night in the hush,
Home to the occasional finch,
And bottoms of enormous fill.
Passing souls float by in time,
All marching ahead,
Progressing all, while,
The bench stands still.