Life's Storm
D
David Wood
0
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What of man's tiny footprint left
As his mark, his worth bereft
Of true greatness; of all that he was,
All that he was meant to be.
His life lived to what end.
To others will he stooped to bend.
With his dismal daily labours
He ages with each cold grey dawn,
Each changing tide of drifting flotsam,
And blows in any direction like the wind
Tossed leaves of autumn's gales.
Nothing he has done has been of worth.
Life's great problems still remain
Hard and cold they remain unsolved
Never having the resources be free
Always tied to the daily grind
And bringing along the next generation
To inherit their crown of thorns.
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