The erudite ancient,
His fingers stained with mercury,
Slept night upon night
Amidst unfathomable machinery.
And each night he was no closer
Than when he slept the night before
But each morning he still held his breath
When he opened the furnace door
One afternoon he suddenly died,
Tired, insane, and old
And became another in a long line of men
To waste their life for gold.
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A vivid alchemical picture. I love it!
ReplyDeleteOld Grizz says this is nice work. your poem catches the theme perfectly
ReplyDeleteI like the picture and the poem :)
ReplyDeleteSo on it goes the wasting of life for gold...when gold abounds outside the window. Well said.
ReplyDeleteI particularly like the image of the fingers stained with mercury...leading to the insanity at the end. Great poem.
ReplyDeleteAlchemy can be fools gold for sure.
ReplyDeleteunfathomable machinery - that's a great phrase! This had a great feel to it!
ReplyDeleteooh I liked this - I always have trouble with the last line of a poem and this was fabulous :)
ReplyDeleteit is easy to become possessed abt one's life work....and you spoke so well the day in and day out of life and one day it ends...beautiful...i wonder if maybe we are not suppose to know....
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