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Minstrel

Contributed by screwge on Sunday, 21st December 2008 @ 09:19:48 PM in AEST
Topic: SadPoetry

The minstrel plays his surly tune,
Eye-yoke like egg yolk.
Yes, he looks wan,
Sallow everywhere, sans his thick
Head hair.

It lacks that luster,
Not blonde but black,
Grey hair surfacing here and there.
It will always lack
That luster. Characteristic of the sick.

So spectators chip in
A fiery copper coin,
Donors of the shine
Not within.
Hollownesscongenital havoc.

And they even upgrade
To silver, gold.
His flaccid
Arms catch the coins, juggle the dividend,
Cute, wobbly, akimbo.

Akimbo. When the arms
Planted at the waist
Still possess
Fast
Fingers.

Those fingers play accordion.
Two are missing,
But they would say he has eighteen.
He is missing the ring,
Which can loosen or quicken

The juggling technique.
But mastering the purposive uni-wheel
Was harder to overlook.
He usually fell;
It did not matter.

He had spent much of childhood
In hospitals. It struck him
That abut agencies deliberately rubbed
His sternum
Against the grain.

Dumped from a wheelchair
And immediately scooped up.
Some traduced what remaining power,
Others cursed the phantom harp-
Optimal digits

Absent from his hands.
He might be a harlequin; might,
They herald, have hordes
Find him mendicant
All in the same.

Copyright © screwge ... [ 2008-12-21 21:19:48]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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