Rhythm

A lone pickaxe swinging in vicious arcs
The solid clank of metal against rock
Black granite walls, unmoving
Entomb within the womb of darkness
The fluttering spirit
That strains to pulsate
With the vibrant light without

The tantalizing torment
As swing after swing
Causes fresh sparks to fly
Between granite and steel
Mistaken for an instant
As slivers of the light outside
Recognized immediately afterward
In their futility of extinction

The frustration is deep
And so is the desire
While the granite walls - cruel, unmoving
Laugh silently at both.
But the promised light outside
Has been underestimated in its power
And kindles a fire
That provides strength to weary arms
And hope to a weary Heart.

The lone pickaxe swings in vicious arcs.