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I used to have a website dedicated to old stories and poems I wrote.  And most of them were complete bullshit - the usual stuff that sort of creative kids with a heavy dose of angst write when they're seventeen.  However, I was skimming the site, laughing my ass off (and no, I won't give a link), when I came across an old poem I wrote.

It's not funny, at all, but I like it.  So why not post it up here?

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(written 2001)

a single man, holding an axe in both hands
spread out - to get a better grip for chopping, mind-
wearing a stained white T-shirt that had more holes than cloth
and a flannel jacket that was unbuttoned
(and unwashed – it wasn’t a social jacket)
he brings the axe down to the fallen tree
each swing followed with a grunt
as if the grunts have a magical power
all of their own
each breath is a cloud,
twisting upwards toward heaven
to become a peace of beauty
the dog sniffs at the ferns, the trees, and the ground
tail raised, large paws crunching the pine needle blanket
again the axe swings down
the man focuses, forgetting of
Work, of fights lost
of lovers lost
-or forgotten-
focused on cutting a fallen log
(it had fallen in a storm three days prior)
each grunt holds power
but the strength ebbs, so the man sits down on his target
chest heaving, hands flexing
and the sounds of the forest engulf
(birds, mostly, though the wind is soothing all on its own)
and the man
comes to realize
that there’s a purpose to it all
after all

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