The Pebble in My Left Knee

In my left knee, a pebble dwells, serene and round,

Ghostly white, like bone, subtly in its realm found.

It whispers not of pain or cries that pierce the night,

But marks its presence quietly, a beacon in its light.

 

A sour old man, an intruder in my sinews taking space,

He claims a home not his, with an unwelcome embrace.

With every step, he mildly disagrees,

A constant, grumbling companion, impossible to appease.

 

From my bones' remnants, this tiny monster emerged, stark,

Its growl is a thin voice, a symphony in the dark.

A melody to which I cannot sway, grace it lacks,

No beauty with this beast, peace gone, nothing attracts.

 

Mysterious in creation, unknown in its birth,

It's as if the walking, working, gave this pebble its girth.

A byproduct of endurance, a residue of the toils,

Crafted by the daily grind, the worldly coil.

 

It speaks not of purpose, nor of relief,

But echoes the void left by unending, pointless grief.

A reminder of struggling, tireless yet worn,

In the fabric of being, indelibly torn.

 

So, in my knee, the pebble sits, aloof,

A smooth, silent testament to a harsher truth.

A life of labor, a cycle with no creed,

Bound by a pebble, in my left knee, indeed.