An unknown number of days have seen
a man clad in rags, such rags have seen
no better days, for they were stitched together
by the man's need for survival by clothing,
and he was, by no means, a tailor,
acquainting himself with the mindless and meaningless
task of removing overgrown vegetation
upon a vast field. A field in which he knows
no perspective. He has no ability to obtain
frame of reference, even if he wished to do so.
He can fell trees and bring plants the horrors
of sharpened metal with little difficulty.
The man can walk, but he cannot move;
he can talk, but he cannot speak.
He finds no discomfort in these things,
bearing the weight of the disabilities is
no difficult feat for the man. His only comfort,
a large, unruly scythe. The shaft is strewn with holes
and riddled with spots that hang on
with seemingly no material for support.
The majority of the trees felled by the man
would make a suitable shaft for his scythe.
He decides to continue using the original shaft.
The blade takes no wear, and it gleams
bright from the overseeing sun.
No dulling has found itself on the blade,
retaining its ability to easily destroy
vegetation as intended.
• • •
