Wood and Nailed

This is no life
For a man in his thousands,
A man with his spine
In the beginnings of Giza sand
And Peruvian mountains,
And his boot heel dragging lines
On the far side
Of prophesied planets.
I was society’s idea,
Not the reverse.
If I were to build
A box to live in,
I would make holes for breath,
And to remember the breeze
And the light
Of suns and moons.
There is fresh wood on the bench
In front of me; sat upon
Until it gave out,
Unable to cope
With its intention,
The purpose chosen for it,
For the golden planks
That once knew solace in trees.
Now the wood is replaced,
Purpose renewed, because
For men to sit
And look at waves
Is a need that must
Be satisfied.
There is no shortage
Of metaphors.
All I had to do
Was raise my head.