By the sea
I am no more than pebbles strewn
along a barren, lonely beach,
though what wisdom I do possess,
I try my best that I might teach.
In many ways I am used up,
the physical, of lifeís retreat.
Age tends to do that to us all,
like Thanksgiving without the meat.
Itís Christmas day and Iím at rest,
the physical, but not the mind,
like car at idle, standing still.
One day, myself, I hope to find.
The weariness of lifeís travails
tries overthrow the sensitive,
to harden who Iíve always been,
but I refuse, itís how I live.
There is no ear to hear the cry
of forlorn voice, of broken toy,
of man who struggles to survive,
while in him weeps a little boy.