The King of the Log
Posted by Ronak M Soni on November 3, 2009
Sorry that this is under poetry, but I like to think of this as a prose poem.
Yet again, all constructive criticism/clicking on thumbs will be appreciated.
I stopped. It had been a long run. Now came the hard part. I had woken up at five in the morning and gone for a ten kilometer run. Now, my eyelids drooped, the film of adhesive between my eyelids getting to work.
I heard the wet sand crunching under my shoes, the calls of early morning birds. The wind blowing my hair into my face, I stumbled over a root: my lids had drooped to below my irises.
The lovely, cool wind slipped under my t-shirt and raised every little hair, leaving with the sweat that stuck it to my body. I pulled my eyes open against the dark, magnetic pull.
The sleepy feel of debris under my eyes – that patched inoffensive film of it that called for sleep – weighed my head down, bent my back, buckled my knees, pushed me all the way down.
I got up, sweaty as well as dirty. Jolted awake, the tears came to my eyes, dissolving up the adhesive, the debris, blotting my sight. I rapidly blinked to clear my eyes. And smiled: we primates tend to rule.
For, in front of me, on a log, sat a monkey, his right knee next to his face, his forearm hanging off it, and his other hand feeding himself; for, in front of me, on a log, sat its king.