Poetry / Tooley's Curse
Tooley was a mild man,
Of tender heart and quiet pose.
He loved to watch the sun come up,
He loved to smell the rose.
And in his heart he had no qualm,
With Man’s eternal strife.
But bore, instead, another cross,
The burden of his life.
He was a prose man, so you see,
His life was filled with words.
His mind forever churning out,
Great rhetoric turn to verse.
No care had he for common things,
For family, friends or home,
His treasure lay within the lines,
Of volumes of his own.
But though he worked and slaved no end,
Through morning, noon and night.
Not once had he the courage to,
Complete the work he might.
It sat in bundles on his desk,
And strewn across his floor.
It took up room upon his shelf,
And pushed out through his door.
And in the end, for ends come due,
‘Twas found across his desk.
His pen still poised, his ink undone,
His treasure still he kept.
But on the page, beneath his hand,
His mystery revealed,
Two words were scrawled, and so it was,
“The End,” and his was sealed.
3/23/86
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Very nice work, very clear and so easy to read backed up by a great story. The closure was so perfect, a souls completed work, loved it! After reading it, I wondered if a certain person had a few ‘bundles’ of her own… still undone…me…
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