Poetry Project v 2.0, Day 9

Well, I suppose that 9 PM is better than yesterday's very late update! No ado, nothing special like that...just some poems. So, here we go...


I met a man, his cloak tattered, his boots worn,
his dreams shattered, he was broken.
His back was bowed under his heavy pack,
his legs could no longer straighten,
such was the state of the beggarman.

He told me his tale,
it was full of sadness,
loss and regret were his companions,
pain and suffering were his bags.

He was a wanderer.
No aim, no goal.
No roof, no bed.
Lost.

He used no name.
None was needed.
Names are needed only when people matter.
And he was a wanderer.


THanks for reading.

The Fat Kid