The Broken Pile
A prose poem
I am just a piece in a fractured network of wheels and pulleys that are obscured, scrambled, sequestered in the collective of the bottom desk-drawer of a basement tinkerer. Languidly buried in this space with my brothers and sisters, we collect dust like a layer of skin imitating something that we wish we were, anything, to distract us from what we are.
We are hopefully aloof with the yearning to serve our not-known functions, whatever that may be. A silent commonality, not without silent passion, threads us together, waiting for a blueprint to forge us into the metal pistons of an engine compelled by ember and blaze. Only, we are formless and spinning perpetually on our heels without a northward to right our tired, broken compasses.
And no wonder we stare like lost sheep indolently waiting for the impossible — that an organized entropy will cosmically arrange us into harmonization and achieve the culmination of purpose — something that we hope is only improbable. What irony, the want for Chaos to open the drawer and for we to desperately believe it to know that what’s best is what’s best.
