Oarsman in the Lake

Soft were the splashes,

Oars dipped in darkness

Out came the wood dripping

From the lake called sorrow.

Lonely the oarsman rowed,

Into nowhere. Now that

future has become unknowm

Life has become threadbare.

Tattered were his clothes,

better off than his heart they were,

battered were his bones,

incomparable to the pain unknown.

Dusk turned to midnight,

night which may ne’er end.

Happyness turned to sorrw

swift were the twists of fate.

Now he has stopped rowing,

tired were his arms and legs

hope the sharks show him mercy

because flowers never did


About dairyman

A cat in a man's body who loves dogs. View all posts by dairyman

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