The Relic

New days, same place he sits abandoned on the street, Nowhere to be, no one to see, no goal or soul to greet. Perhaps long years of meds now claim their costly toll, Blank stare, blank eyes caress a barren, blank, brick wall. A tired, palled face devoid of faith and hope, A wheelchair gaining speed, descending life’s grim slope. A tattered hat says “Vet” without prides lavish swell, A tattered carnal shell that’s been through more than hell. When peered at from a distance he looks peaceful and serene, A closer look discloses a life stained with dread and nicotine. I disgracefully recall my frail grievances with life, I scorch in shameful flames, disgusted by cheap strife. 60,000 dead, war raged for 20 years, Hearts and bodies bled, blood washed away with tears. People burned in napalm while eager egos yearned, But have we learned our lessons from pages never turned? And today before my eyes, the epitome of pain, another life destroyed by mankind’s filthy stain. And today before my eyes, a relic of lost wars, Today before my eyes, a relic of closed doors. I wish I were a giver, I’d take his pain away, Please make me a believer, so gods can hear me pray. Instead I close my eyes and watch his hopeless roam, And there is nothing I can do. Except write this pointless poem.

gene16180

My muse can be unseemly and nomadic although she fancies meter and good rhyme, her diligence and output are sporadic, and some may say she’s moving past her prime. At times she’s off consorting with the sages reflecting on existence, as it were, At...

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