The Old Man's Vicissitudes
How long will he labour?
How long will he stand to wait at the harbour?
Aged but still toiling,
Weary components decry oiling,
He rises early to a routine striving,
He retires home, feet dragging.
His perpetual toil hasn't yielded much,
Life has left him in the lurch,
From his prime to his senior, he scrimps and saves,
All that come are not anything he craves,
Opulence hasn't beamed its light his way,
Neither has fortune come to stay.
He is near the end of his race,
He is at the wits' end of his grace.
March 18, 2022.
Copyright © Thompson Emate | Year Posted 2022
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