Upon the Canvas of Life's Cruel Stage,
Upon the canvas of life's cruel stage,
A man of seventy-two, in silent rage,
Stands alone, a vessel of despair,
Retired from service, in need of care.
His children, scattered 'cross the world,
Now bask in riches, with sails unfurled,
While he, who toiled and shed his tears,
Remains in solitude, his heart, a mirror.
His wife, now gone, to children dear,
Leaves him behind, with love unclear,
In twilight years, he faces fate,
His worth, diminished, in this state.
High blood pressure, his constant woe,
Aging ailments, with pain to sow,
How much longer, can he bear,
This lonely life, an empty chair?
A truth for men of working class,
Their lives, a mirrored, tragic glass,
Their wives, to children, love more true,
The older he gets, the less they value.
They said, "It's a man's world," so bold,
But for women, children, truth's been told,
Men sacrifice, with little praise,
While women seem to reap the rays.
Copyright ©
Akinloye Gbajero Sunday
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