Poor Fool

I finish the day defeated. I'm broken, a soul with no
Notion of age in a body which falters and aches,
Making clear that it's old. The young man at work
In my mental control room pushes on levers. He sees
As he does that the thing that he's trying to run
Is decrepit. What was is no longer. What will be
Is nought but a tumble downstairs toward
A meaningless death. There's a clock somewhere
Near. It's relentlessly ticking, and none of the tricks
That the kid in the room tries to pull off succeeds.
The clock won't be stopped. It's time for that boy, who
Insists that he's youthful, to wise up. He's facing defeat.


Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 64 times
Written on 2024-07-10 at 13:00

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Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
With all our hearts let us hope that the demise is victory not defeat. You express the thoughts so well, and you don't have to be holy to find a prize at the end of the toil. Blessings, Allen

Your metaphor here is king. I LOVE this