He was born to the world with a silver spade in his hands.
He could dig through the solid floors into far distant lands.
It saved him during times other minds didn’t understand.
The spade was his shiny silver saviour.
As he became older the spade dug down too deep.
It left holes in the fabric of the company he’d keep.
Down into the dark places that dwelt in his sleep.
It soon tore and blistered his hands.
Then he realised the problem was the depth of the holes.
They were too deep for the sun to shine down on his goals.
They were deeper than Sartre, Descartes and most moles.
They sucked all the light from his smiles.
Therefore, after a while of been down so damned low,
He knew that there was only one direction to go.
Onwards and upwards where the cold things can grow.
He’d find a different perspective.
If you’re wanting an ending like so many do,
A fresh person emerging to offer you new,
Then I’m afraid to tell you that his digging’s not through.
Life just isn’t that simple.
He was born to this world with a silver spade in his hands.
He’s digging through dunes of shifting mountainous sands
He’ll count each tiny grain until he at last understands.
And he doesn’t need help from your kind.