A Prose for the Able

A life, so futile, grazed in stone
I was to trace the line,
and conform to the duly throne;
Was this a life called mine?

To quench my fleshly, “pig” desires
the way my heart and soul
has lived and longed with ravenous fires,
but stone diminished coal.

Sagaciously, quite meekishly
Determined, I was set.
The jagged path was nude for me;
Brusque, I was a cadet.

And flowing, gracing, on the way,
cascading was my trail;
Little we know—water, it may
engrave your stony ail.