the Rut of Existance

As I tried to continue my meaningless life
Grumbling, assigning all negativity, to that which my eyes beheld
My spirit damped and soggy with the clay of life's drudgeries
I came upon a narrowing of the way and the hall of doors closed.

Attempting to turn and return from whence I had come
The girth of my consuming, weakened by excess, I could not
Stifled, by the smalling enclousures
My gaze went floorward and as my chin touched my chest
The windpipe bent, the scent of my failures filled my lungs.

We are as many of the unwritten tomes of disappointment
There are still other unread books flapping their pages in the dust
Soon too, their words will be bleached by the Sun
and the ink of their unspoken words will be washed away by Spring rain.

We the lost and lonley, usually appear as dark spotted clouds on the street corners of cities,
Staring vacantly as the rush of Life moves around us as, Salmon swimming upstream
Past a wet jagged rocks in a fast moving stream.

We barely exist and continue to be none other than ‘nameless poets, left behind .