A much older one. From probably 2009. A former tutor directed a subtly snide remark toward me once, about my poetry. He was discussing professionals versus amateurs, and made eye-contact with me when he mentioned the latter. But as if I care about being a professional poet. Whether 10 or 10,000 people are interested in anything I write, I’m not going to earn much either way. Though I do wish to be read, otherwise I wouldn’t be blogging. The point is I don’t expect anything in return (though there is much that I yearn for):
What do you want!?
Money? Power? Sex?
Or all, in no particular order?
Expect not, dark existential holes,
To be stuffed with fleeting whims.
Indefinitely, the eagle flies not,
But for purpose and necessity;
With every beat of powerful feathers,
The wheel of life spins further.
Take heed, of the lined face,
With bandages, binding legs.
Blood seeps through,
But still he hobbles,
Pushing his cart of bread;
His cart of boulders.
When finally, the world crushes him,
To his grave, he will take,
The mirrored smiles and hellos,
He gives through his pain.
Though frail of body,
And with a mind which withers,
Like a rock enduring eons of wind,
He will leave a permanent mark,
With his smiles and greetings,
On those who may wish,
For things which matter not.