Poetry

Purpose [a poem]

Tired and fagged I staggered, struggling to support myself, my weight suddenly too much for my feet to fake fit.

Gradually I gave up, hitting the floor hard with my gluttus, too tired to reach for the floor gently.

Perspiration permeated my innermost pros, caressing my skin like a new found comfortable camp, raising the height of the discomfort I already felt.

Foolishly I had fled, figuratively fast tracking my lute even though not certain how far fetched it feathered.

Futher and further I flew, the more I looked the less I saw.

The grill of the birds were beginning to echoe, ideas far fetched yet, my strength remained eluded.

Glued to a point I waited, ready for darkness to invade me, then the voice of the stranger sprang forth.

A strange man with a strange countenance yet, his helping hand extended.

A glare of hope, what I called it. For what is worth, I was gladdened. I had learnt the hard way to never look down on the importance of “purpose”!