The Drifter
The wolf was not too keen to mix,
A drifter, nothing more...
And his own company he picks,
As if he knows the score...
Responsibilities dismissed,
Discarded out-of-hand,
They could not help him to exist
In water or on land...
He checks the water carefully,
Avoiding pain and strife,
As if he wanted certainty
Through each day of his life...
On his own a hundred rainbows,
On Earth, beneath the sky,
The drifter chose this path he goes,
No family nearby...
He drifts just like the sun by day
And like the moon at night,
Alone, yet choosing come what may,
No conscience as a guide...
To him, life is no funfair ride,
No easy path to stroll...
The drifter has no sense of pride...
The drifter has no soul...
poem by Denis Martindale
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
No comments until now.