The Block

Allegorical prose poem, creation by destruction

The Block stood tall, jagged and thrusting against the ethereal dust skimming over the quarry floor. Brutish, untamed stone hewn from the bones of the Earth.

The first Traveler came with wedge and hammer and shaped The Block. He chamfered the angles, he rounded the edges. He gave the Block form.
And they all marveled at his work.
“But it is not right” he protested. “I have cracked the stone” he decried. But they all marveled at his work.
With a reluctant pride he shouldered his pack, drank in the imperfect beauty of his work, and traveled.

The second Traveler came with chisel and hammer and shaped The Block. Trunk, arms, legs and a head emerged from its depths. Figure created by his hands.
And they all marveled at his work.
“But it is not right” he protested. “I have not proportioned Him” he decried. But they all marveled at his work.
With a nod and a smile he shouldered his pack, drank in the imperfect beauty of his work, and traveled.

The third Traveler came with point and hammer and shaped The Block. Sinew, fingers, jaws and eyes breathed life into the Figure. His craftsmanship stood stark against the desolate quarry.
And they all marveled at his work.
“But it is not right” he protested. “There is no life in these features” he decried. But they all marveled at his work.
With a wry smile he shouldered his pack, drank in the imperfect beauty of his work, and traveled.

The fourth Traveler came with file and air and shaped The Block. Flowing, translucent rivers of finest silk were summoned from the stone, draped over the Figure’s form. Rock made fabric.
And they all marveled at his work.
“But it is not right” he protested. “It hangs too heavy upon His shoulders” he decried. But they all marveled at his work.
Leaving them in awe he shouldered his pack, drank in the imperfect beauty, of his work and traveled.

The fifth traveler came with mind and vision and Saw the Blocks. Columns, bricks, gazelles and lions he Saw. Temples, castles and goddesses he imagined. A world within the quarry he built in his mind.
A figure, he thought. Of flawless marble, perfectly proportioned, with eyes that pierce and garments that float.
The fifth traveler scoured the chips, dust and stone. The foul excrement of The Block. He gathered them, sifted them, mourned them. He saw in them the pain and indifference of the four travelers.

Not The Block. The Block would not do.

 

Author's Note

My first attempt at creative writing - more a stream of consciousness with minimal editing. I have no background or education in writing, so any feedback is welcome!