Life makes sorry beasts
out of us, when it has done its
work: Caricatures of our
worst traits, crudely drawn;
withered husks of our
former looks, weakened
in body. Gives us some menial
tasks to do, one outside
the walls of what is cast as
home, another menial task
outside. All our high and
mighty ideals, in rags in
the hands of this thief
which them stole and spoiled.
Like scarescrows then are
we left to stand at life's fringe,
near its end, sorry beasts;
maliciously done sketches
of what was, in the golden
spring of this existence.
22.04.2023
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
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