PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

WHEELS
(T. Beechey)

He's been writing ever since before he could talk,his mother found him outside on the sidewalk
Early one morning at a quarter to six doodling all over those concrete bricks
"What are you doing?" she asked with disdain,he was too young to fully explain
He didn't understand,it just soothed and healed the moving and the turning of the wheels

As he grew up he went to school,but he couldn't fit in so he played the fool
He made all the kids laugh and smile,yet he was hurting all the while
When he was alone at the end of the day,he took out a pen and scribbled away
All those giggles and high-pitched squeals,along with the rolling of the wheels

Those wheels,they never seemed to move slow --- always on the move,always on the go
They turned throughout the day and night and rolled in with the morning light
If only they'd stop for a moment to two,but they never would and he always knew
That,as long as he thinks and feels,he'd hear the purring of the wheels

He moved away to another town,found a wife,tried to settle down
He thought if he raised a family,everything'd be just how it should be
His wife grew bored and filed for divorce,all of his kids chose a separate course
And the only thing that,to him,was real was the spinning and whirling of the wheels

So he came home where it had begun,tried to again play the dutiful son
By doing everything he was told,he felt like a child yet he was old
And,as he walked in between their lines,he began to lose sight of what defines
Himself from all that truly appeals,he got lost in the motion of the wheels

Those wheels,they never seemed to move slow --- always on the move,always on the go
They turned throughout the day and night and rolled in with the morning light
If only they'd stop for a second to two,but they never could as he went through
Whatever life would give and steal to the tune of the whirring of the wheels

Now,he's old and gray and bent wondering about all that his life meant
As he sits alone in a rocking chair beside a window through which he stares
At a world that somehow passed him by without any concern or a reason why
At night,beside his bed,he kneels and listens to the rumble of the wheels