Discarded, the
tangled metal,
in its
metamorphosis
from usefulness,
loses its
identity.
More Alzheimer
than amnesiac,
abandoned by its
memories,
beyond conversation.
There are no
photographs of its prime,
little remains to
enable recognition,
its time is
running out
and it is beyond
singing.
1 comment:
There's a real sadness about this poem, together with its photo... and when you reach a certain age, it leaves one with a heaviness for missed days in the past...
Post a Comment