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He was a peculiar man, that found lies an unnecessary burden on the back of his memory

His small house had no space for hatred and he had thrown it out long ago

Unable to see colors or shapes he treated all the same, God included

Simple needs he harvested in his garden, creeping weed's desire for more never sprouted in his mind

His promises, hard rock do not bend in this plastic world of discardable trash

His hobby, mending broken hearts with old glue of compassion and hands of rusted wire

Neighbors, vested as charitable vultures had tried to recycle him to an asylum of unfitting pieces

Abandonment, his only friend sits at a set table awaiting where none attend

Here he shakes the only hand extended, a clock

He was a peculiar man

Reviews

[Thomas W Case]

Tremendous work. Vivid and sharp.

[Soren]

Thank you so much Thomas it is appreciated

[Chris Shaw]

I can’t help feeling how utterly alone he was. So he was different but that doesn’t mean he should live without human touch. The man deserved compassion not isolation. How sad, Soren.

Chris

[Soren]

Thank you so much for the read and comment Chris it is as always most valued and appreciated. Old values no longer seem to fit in a modern world.