A short poem about Being Lost: Through dusty old passages,
Caked in years of neglect,
Lives an old wooden door,
Very hard to detect.
Carved from the husk,
Of a bitter oak tree,
Burned bright by the lightning,
And fixed fast by the sea.
“Every door holds a secret,
Behind which things are found”,
If you push on the handle,
Is it structually sound?
But the old man who works there,
Has nothing to hide,
Just an eye for detail,
And a manner quite snide.
Lonliness touches him,
No people around,
But ‘the things’ are his friends,
They’re ‘the Lost’ and ‘the Found’.
Every day there is more,
A boardgame, a dolly,
An old leather book,
And a battered old brolly,
A satchel,
One trainer a hat and a coat,
One long oar,
From a bright orange boat,
Ducks made of rubber,
And clothes of all ages,
Treasure galore,
All housed in steel cages,
Silently hoping,
Beyond all reasonable doubt,
That their owners will come,
And let them all out.
Day after day,
With a noticable hunch,
The Keeper will sit there,
Digesting his lunch,
Wiping the crumbs,
With the back of his hand,
A curious jailor,
And the King of his Land.
Torn between hoping,
That someone will knock,
And with smiles on faces,
Take home their clock,
That they bought at that day
At that time, at that place,
With a small sum of money,
And a smile on their face,
That they left on the seat,
Of the two fifty eight,
When they realisation hit,
Just a moment too late.
And wanting to keep,
All these things in his sight,
To make sure that somebody,
Cares for them right.
By BEN GOODSON...
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