A crisply turning wheel.
Briskly burning
In the morning steel.
Down, up, down, back up-
Stumble, rise and heal.
A languidly swinging seat.
Tangibly creaking
in the moonlit heat.
Right, left, right, repeat-
Arise, desire, retire and sleep.
A numbly rocking chair.
Subtly knocking
The wind in his hair.
Saw your gaze against the haze-
And lay your worries bare.
An insect-feasted bed.
A thickset, defeated
unheeded old head.
And the wind has now soaked in
His token remains
His lashes stay broken with
unspoken pains.
A lone cent jiggles somewhere in his purse
A trophy of begging, of stealing, and worse-
His toilings are hung up on railings beside,
As wailings unsung of, prevail in his sighs;
A man of pride he was, the mine was his home
And he had survived loss, and misery and woe;
A man, who began as a servant, a worm and
who sang with his hands
with a frenzy so fervent;
And miles did he fare; threadbare be the road
He'd begun as a beggar, and so did he go.
A worker without, hue, cry or shout
His final gasps lacing the sighs in his mouth.
A swiftly rotting corpse.
Simply wanting
A fire of sorts.
A corpse that lived
a corpse, until
He fell, and never was.
~•■•~
A/N- I don't think this is clear enough in the poem, but this is an account of the thankless life of a labourer. The last lines of the first three stanzas show his changing attitude towards life.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Blots
Poesía[On hold] Key: |Straight Brackets| - Poetry. \Tilted Brackets/ - Passionate, Vaguely Poetic Prose or Free Verse. ~Wave Brackets~ - Poetry specifically between 1 and 3 sentences in length. ☆☆ For everyone, Who finds, Not in a graveyard or cretamorium...
