The Ragpicker

I rummage in the dustbin of my life

Amid atrophied talents and dead dreams

By apathy and caution killed: wild schemes

That might have been, but perished in the strife

Of present versus future. Yet like a knife

Hope amputates pain’s memories: where it gleams

Through filth of festering flowers, it redeems

Perhaps a jot (though rust and rot are rife)

Of precious wasted time. My gold I gave

Away for bread. The torn and tarnished treasure

Left, I cherish. What remnants I can save

From moth and mould I know can give small pleasure,

Although, a saddened spendthrift now, I crave

More time, and courage still to give full measure.

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2 thoughts on “The Ragpicker

  1. “I rummage in the dustbin of my life

    Amid atrophied talents and dead dreams”

    Powerful stuff. But there is a note of hope within the verse, and for many, hope is all they have. Doesn’t that get more precious with time

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