The path turned to tile, a stark, silent square,
And Alice found stillness where once there was care.
The White Rabbit stood, a monument of stone,
His hurried-up life forever now gone.
No frantic watch-checking, no flustered refrain,
Just silence and stillness and a perfect domain.
The creatures knelt down, a reverent throng,
“The still one is wise, where the movers are wrong!”
“A watch that ticks not is a watch that is true,”
They whisper and worship, with nothing to do.
But Alice remembers a hurried-up friend,
Whose chaos and worry had no place to end.
She reaches to touch him, the marble is cold,
And a story of stillness begins to unfold.
A faint, hidden tick, a twitch of the lip,
A memory stirred by a hesitant trip.
“He loved his own hurry, his miserable pace,”
She whispers to nothing, then flees from the place.
The whispers pursue her, a prayer in the air,
“Forever still. Forever wise. Forever stone.” They declare.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 