My Hand At Poetry

I met a man the other day coming from the other way.
In a voice that wasn’t nice, I tried to give him my advice.
“Good sir,” said I to fix his plight, “the way you’re going isn’t right.”
He smugly grinned and waved his hand and bid me turn and join his band.
The nerve of him to think me wrong, when thus far I’d journeyed long
Down this road of sweat and tears, failed hope and realized fears.
I shared with him my trail of woe and what would happen should he go
Back the path whence I had walked. Yet, how he argued, fought, and balked!
In the end though we fought long and I was right and he was wrong,
He thought I was out of line so he went his way. I went mine.
When within me cooled the righteous fire I had kindled in my ire,
I thought perhaps I’d been unkind to this poor man I’d left behind
For though he was a stupid clod, I was traveling ground he’d trod.

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One Response to My Hand At Poetry

  1. Todd Wiley says:

    Nice. Seriously, I like it.

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