My life is spent, a poor writer,
nothing of value to my name.
Misused by the imperfect world,
downtrodden, threadbare, worn and cold.
Insufficient for life or love.
Impossible for me to change
the man I truly have become.

By the grace that God has shown me,
I employ my pen to paper.
Crafting lines like works of art.
On display, but hidden within
cellars of anonymity.
Never to know the hands of one
who treasures the words printed on the page
that weeps my hollow name.

They matter not, birthed ideas.
Mere weight of words cannot impress
stubborn mountains to clear the way
or bereft Man to be as one.
No equal for merciless time,
what use is ink to ashen page,
to hail emotion from the dead?
Crowds of souls that walk barren roads,
discarding free will simply to conform.

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