Brown grass in the meadow

Like the elderly cross the road,
I mope through my province,
remembering the times when I out-sped the light.

It’s not age that decays my life,
but acknowledgement;
where I get nothing from my work
no matter how I try.

I sold my soul to no demon.
I’m no killer of a man.
So I live this dull existence,
and die forgotten.

Whilst my heart only beats the once,
yours may find time for two.
I mope through my lonely province,
cursing the design.

Who am I? I will introduce:
I’m the keeper of keys
with all of the potential, yet
I cannot find the door.

Won’t someone push me forward
to the place I want to stand?
I’ve combed through and through my meadow;
searching for who I am.

One thought on “Brown grass in the meadow

  1. Pingback: The Wireless Quill

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