The Slow Burn

The mind grows like stone reshaped by rain.  

Not in torrents, but drip after drip.  

You want fireworks, quick sparks, don’t you?  

A flash, applause, the rush of the thing.  

But this is a grind, ox versus plow.  

The soil resists, the hands blister raw.  

Books heavy as boulders, breaking your back.  

The clock sneers; you hear its cruel ticking.  

Truth hides behind corners, laughs at fools.  

No shortcuts here, no magician’s quick hand.  

Each word learned like carving through granite.  

Each thought gained, a stuck thorn plucked out.  

You curse the slowness, chew on the struggle.  

But wait, grit and blood make the diamond.  

Sisyphus climbing, stone up, stone down.  

The real lesson: hard labor never ends.