He sits in an empty room
An old soul that people simply don’t want.
Discarded and left to barely survive
His heart withers as he tries to prevent it
from stopping
as he has failed to thrive.
Money seems to be the lust that brings people near
The lack of it keeps him isolated, hungry, and
keeps the Grim Reaper’s vision
to take your soul, soon, in your mirror.
His worth was measured by greedy people
Claiming to care
They were but a service
Whom you had paid to be there.
As tears fall in the silent hours
Memories of your defeats
Echoes of a heart-palpitating
As the next day..he dreads.. and waking to it
Hesitating.
What is the meaning of himself?
What is his true worth?
Peter Pan Advice is all he hears
Laughing...he nods to “agree to disagree”
Always being the compromise……
He fades further away
As people fail to treat him like he toils
harder to respect
or see his true self
His life is like a dusty antique
In a shop…..dusty...gathering cobwebs
on life’s shelf.