Life just doesn’t cut it, leaving him out in the cold,
With nothing but his thoughts to ponder, as day by day he grows old,
His shoulders are wrapped in past regrets, those that took a toll,
His hours spent fighting his demons, those he welcomed when his anger took hold.
******
Where once he ran with the herd, albeit at the back of the pack,
Now he squanders the daylight hours, destitute and alone,
Torment rides him hard while the darkness surrenders to him,
Wishing someone, anyone, would throw this old dog a bone.
******
He’s full of contradictions, a walking conundrum for sure,
Leaving others wondering — is there a heart in there anywhere?
Cold, bleak with an unforgiving attitude,
Incapable of loving, incapable of the ability to honestly care!
******
Isolation is his fortress, or so he believes,
Whereby it is in reality his prison, his destructiveness, his iron-willed cage,
The locks and iron bars bend his back to a breath of sufferance,
Filling his thoughts with the fiery flames of his bottomless rage.
******
What can he do but accept? Accept this is his lot in life,
His payment, his reward for a life destructively lived,
Now he boils in the warmth of the fire he can no longer control,
Forever burning, unless he seeks the absolution of those he wishes would forgive.
******
Time is no longer on his side, years have been wasted,
For what? Instant gratification, his feelings of power as he destroyed,
Crippling those that tried to understand, to help, to free the depravity,
Only to be crushed underfoot, battered and bloody as he kicked them to the void.
******
Change is no longer possible, not in the short days that lie ahead,
Now he wallows in the mud, onlookers watching in distain,
The winds of retribution have turned and swallowed him whole,
Locking him up tight, his only companion — the onslaught of his well-deserved pain!
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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Comments (6)
Fab 🏆♦️♦️
Nope, not gonna feel sorry for him this time, lol. Loved your poem!
You wrote an ode to deep sorrow, which seeks redemption through understanding and forgiveness. A shocking depiction of the inner struggle and loneliness of man. The language you use is full of power and emotion, intricately outlining the human psyche.💙
I don't know, I kinda feel sorry for him when it seems he's brought it on himself. Great work, my friend.
A trap laid for far too many of us, I'm afraid.
Intense poem. I felt just by your cover photo that the man you were describing was me in a few ways. It evokes a sense of misery, of hopelessness. Futility and old age blend easily together. Love your words! ⚡💙⚡