Tired and twisted, only its home did fail,
the rusty nail
remained on the mound of the fire’s ash;
the young monk swept it up to put it in the trash.
Bhagavan stayed the monk
and questioned him, if all he held was junk?
Picking out the nail, rusty and bent,
the monk asked Bhagavan what he meant.
‘We have a pile of nails, brand new,
all clean and true.’
The monk confused
as Bhagavan responded that everything useful should be used.
‘Clean the nail and make it straight;
Pick up the mustard seed that fell off the plate;
A life led living in excess
does not gift the world with success.
Written (later) for the GloPoWriMo Day 9 prompt:
try writing a poem that uses rhyme, but without adhering to specific line lengths.
Inspired by this story from Sri Maharshi
1994ever 