A Stranger To the Seasons
Starved of work his sharpened blade
is dulled by anonymity,
feckless, drifting here and there,
he has no true identity,
time has no fidelity,
and space has no consistency,
he has no frames of reference to rely on.
Work is the measure of the man,
his strengths and limitations.
Now, shrunken wallet, shineless shoes
and shrinking reputation,
a shadow of his former self,
a soulless apparition
wholly spent, a stranger to the seasons.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2012
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