The Stone

A Boy sits facing the sun jaw wide waiting for warmth to tickle his belly
The arm of verse reaches down through a gaping wound in the sky
Cast in gold, with jewelled joints and knuckles, it breaks the Boys breath
Plunges down his esophagus, through his guts, it sifts the stomachs muck
Among the bile, fat, and filth the golden arm finds a solid rock
With force it pulls the stone from within
It hovers before the boy, glistening in the sun
Its intricate machinery casts reflective intimate scenery of his surroundings
It works to polish the stone in a space at a pace the boy cannot understand
So Fast and So slow, doing as it has already done
It finishes polishing the stone
Places it in the Boys hand
One glance suggests it is the key to distant lands