After years of deep wrestling with fate,
Each morning, noon, gloaming and night,
All weather,
Schemes had failed and nothing gone right,
He was left in despair feeling hate
For all women and men and their blether.
Through
long decades of office-trapped dither,
Little
liked, charismatic as slate,He yearned to walk out and take flight,
But whither?
Weakly-dowered, fitfully-bright,
With no stomach for throwing his weight,
Lost of hope, he fumed hither and thither.
As
for love and its flirt, fickle feather,
He
had scoured bar and street for a
mate,Those joustings half-lust and half-spite,
All weather!
But bescorned, his passions in blight,
With a child who adjudged him third-rate,
He had coarsened like bile-blackened leather.
Now
at age, all that sag, all that slither!
Bitter-mouthed,
shabby dressed, slouch of gait,All joy had sailed off like a kite,
But whither?
How he seethed at worldly despite!
Outside shops, children side-eyed his state
Like a street beggar striking his zither.
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©
August 2015