I feel like a crosstie beneath rusted rail,
awaiting a weight that will never return.
The years that I prospered are fall’s early burn
and winter reminds me I’m fragile and frail,
unable to earn, a seasonal tale.
Technology passing is blurring my view,
no longer familiar are terms being used.
The content and factions have left me confused,
and ethics seem bygone like Steamliner’s crew,
their service excused with nothing to do.
The young bucks are gloating, they’re bloated with pride,
with gadgets for problems, analytical slide.
They know less of beauty and how it’s applied,
they’re there for the ride, commitment untied.
…
© Mark Andrew J. Terry, 2016