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Repeater: a subjective poem
"I grow old... I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled."
One cycle follows the next,
June to December, December to June,
In the middle of this time lapse,
Amidst the loss of every hope,
Your unpleasant claps seem dull,
Sounding undervalued—clap, clap, and clap,
With seventy percent chances lost.
Yes, I am disheartened, I am depressed,
Why do you pretend to be generous?
From inside, you knit the brows with mockery
and enjoy my silent dismay when I am
Moving like a repeater dial, month to month,
Then year to year, I fear losing hope again,
With only forty percent chances left,
And people laugh,
let them laugh with empty hearts,
Laugh a stomach-full laugh.
© All Rights Reserved
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled."
One cycle follows the next,
June to December, December to June,
In the middle of this time lapse,
Amidst the loss of every hope,
Your unpleasant claps seem dull,
Sounding undervalued—clap, clap, and clap,
With seventy percent chances lost.
Yes, I am disheartened, I am depressed,
Why do you pretend to be generous?
From inside, you knit the brows with mockery
and enjoy my silent dismay when I am
Moving like a repeater dial, month to month,
Then year to year, I fear losing hope again,
With only forty percent chances left,
And people laugh,
let them laugh with empty hearts,
Laugh a stomach-full laugh.
© All Rights Reserved
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