Some Kind of Unemployment
A stone-cold stare greets a haggard reflection,
Whose hands cup his scraggly face,
Unkempt and severely neglected.
Those weary eyes tell stories
Even few live to pass forward.
But even these stories mean little
When this aged figure rarely speaks.
No words of merit, lines of glory,
Or prose of beauty leave his lips
And never pass beyond his fingertips.
They remain stuck in actions of trasnferral,
So close to completetion, But always
So far from making sense.
Whose hands cup his scraggly face,
Unkempt and severely neglected.
Those weary eyes tell stories
Even few live to pass forward.
But even these stories mean little
When this aged figure rarely speaks.
No words of merit, lines of glory,
Or prose of beauty leave his lips
And never pass beyond his fingertips.
They remain stuck in actions of trasnferral,
So close to completetion, But always
So far from making sense.