The Recycled Soul

January 7, 2018
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The swivel of the cycle wheel
Like the circle of his soul
Round, yet monotonous
Punctured with holes

The brakes on his bike
Too worn out to work
Just like his life
Driveling in the dirt

Disheveled and distraught
With an overgrown beard
Desperately clutching for some coins
Functioning well beyond his years

His sunken cap
His wearisome eyes
Tirelessly waking in the circle of drudgery
Till his penultimate demise

Empowering on
With reason to quell
An elderly man
Yet, what remains is a mere shell

Plastic, wood, and assorted junk
Dust, dirt and he, still distraught
Feeble coins earned
His life - a war through which he has fought
The shoes he wears
Tattered and dismayed
Ensuring that his hoard of cardboard doesn’t fall
All across the way

All day
Everyday






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