I Don't Own the Perfect StoneI Don't Own the Perfect Stone by creightonwrites
I Don't Own the Perfect Stone
One rock particularly kept up subtle vibration
tugging a wax string attached to the song of my soul
in the open black case of the gem-selling hippie.
"Garnet," said hippie, me turning the bit,
so dense and uncut and obligating,
I felt the whole planet swayed with the seas.
This metamorph has no current uses, I reasoned,
but would have ingenious uses unnumbered, would
fit every needful moment like a skeleton key.
I knew it beyond reason or evidence:
the mineral felt correct in my hand.
"Four hundred dollars," said hippie.
Immediately my head was shaking at the price.
Every cleavage was a master stroke.
Every corner was a fulcrum for the world.
|Personal Quote: Purple. Not 42.|