Poem Number 847

Shin splints like fir tinder scaffolds
The mind bends as it renders and has no golds
Nor any fingers to pry for hidden answers
The broken leg shimmering with aged cancers
Like twinkling stars they light it up in spiriling tracks
All glowed up like my eyes that are full of cataracts
Can you spare me a dime for my troubles?
As i stumble here on under the street lamp bubbles
To lay down under the humming lamps warmth and sleep
God turns his hand toward me and mumbles that i'm a wasted heap
made in my image, a spark of the devine
a pity that your mortality and soul are so entwined