Stranger To the Seasons
Starved of work his sharpened blade
is dulled by anonymity,
witless, drifting here and there,
he has no true identity,
time has no fidelity,
and space has no consistency,
there are no frames of reference to rely on.
Work is the measure of the man,
his strengths and limitations.
Now, shrunken wallet, shabby shoes
and shrinking reputation,
a shadow of his former self,
a soulless apparition all but spent,
a stranger to the seasons.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2016
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment