deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Hobbyist

He never amounted to much  
His passion more like an undercurrent  
than a fire  
Quiet  
Kept to himself  
Read a lot  
Paper boats on the water's surface  
  
He felt he had much to offer  
But the world turns even when yours  
is sitting still  
Muscles ache  
Children grown  
Tiny cuts to show  
Paper yellows in the sunlight  
  
He would sometimes look back  
Knowing only in hindsight  
What was opportunity  
Bargain hunting  
For his hobby  
Another pad to fold  
But folded cranes never fly
Written by PierreTheMad
Published | Edited 23rd May 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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