The Stone

there is something about the stone
that i have been complaining
for not being able to understand
its choice to be silent
and hard
and numb and uncommitted
when it is thrown in the river
it makes no sound of protest
when it is ground
it does not scream
when the rain comes it seems
to be contented with being wet
just the same when the sun shines
and heats it
it makes no bother

until some naughty boy takes a stone
and hits my head
and when i begin to bleed
seeing the very stone used
staring at me without guilt
for any responsibility at all
on the ground
that i begin to understand all these things

what a stone is, how come that a stone shall always be
a stone
no matter what.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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