I am torn in pieces two,
cast upon the floor its true.
Unabled to fixed by glue,
just filler for the land.
Useless now forever more.
no fingers to the hand.
Just an object glanced in stare,
a passerby to man.
Weak in ways beyond all measure,
chain locked box empty of treasure.
Starving trees of rotted roots,
a legless man with shiny boots.
Use less true I fear to see,
without no words,
there is no me...
saint cynosure ( Ken Bennight )
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dead-poet/
