
Struggling shadow man
of uphill stone, rolling
toward his earthly bed.
From creation’s cradle
to hallowed grave,
man walks in shadow
of certain death,
struggling in vain,
as his youth ages.
Shadow man of quill and ink;
no home, no place for head,
writes poetry instead.
Words, hunger-wrung in suffering’s end;
reality’s distortion of finer visions.
Woe is poor man's plight;
wretched human, halved
with no real relief.
Struggling shadow man
of uphill stone, rolling
toward his earthly bed.


Cyn

I really appreciate all the nice comments you have for my poetry. 









23 old applause
