Why must I be moved?

Why must I be moved? I’m fine here, thanks.

Don’t you know rolling stones gather no moss?

Patience sometimes pays late, not that you’d know.

 

I admit, deserts ain’t hospitable

places for moss waiting to get gotten,

but, the worthwhile isn’t ever easy.

 

“As a dog returneth to his vomit,

so the stone arolleth in search of moss,”

Wisdom said. Got a problem with Wisdom?

 

Well, I got a problem with being moved.

It brings with it all kinds of things. Nausea,

a sense of the fleetingness of life, etc.

 

 

When would we stop? Hmm? Imagine moving.

Forever. And ever. Doesn’t sound pleasant.

It couldn’t be worse, or it could, I guess.

 

Because though moss gathered consumes stone,

it abides, contra those slag chasers, dew,

and rain, lecherous leeches, here, then gone.

 

If I’m to be moved, I’ll be moved.

Please, let me gather my thoughts and decide.

I’m being moved! Where are we moving? Wait!

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