Seven Cents 3-12-09

How futile are the efforts

of mans short feeble strife,
on this lost and dying earth,
as he begins his life.

I repaired a house -

had first to clean it up,
some paper here, some clothing there,
and one stained coffee cup -

I really have to wonder,

what's inside the head,
when I see the pauper's life -
and view his life instead.

How futile are the work days,

how futile those days off,
when hogs and sows come running to -
a busy feeding trough.

If I had only known him,

if I had known him hence,
though others carried him from here,
I held his seven cents.

Though not as much as Jesus' cried
while hanging to the cross,
my heart cries out in anguish

for men who live in loss.

Endulging in the here and now,

responsible, his fate -
man still works and lives like pigs,
though God controls the date.

Seven cents disguarded,

I found inside his home.
A life indulged in things of earth -
More souls forever roam....

©2009 louis gander ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
http://www.ganderpoems.org/

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