Throughout past movements <br />of my blunted feather pen, <br />my mind has been <br />controlled by frustration. <br />Pages of depleted reams litter <br />the cold stone floor <br />of this uninspiring shed. <br /> <br />Those pins of medals, <br />never make holes <br />in my sweat-soaked vest. <br />No accolades are ever <br />thrown my way…. <br /> <br />as I tried to see life <br />as a knotted ball of string, <br />make some sense <br />of its untidiness, <br />and unravel <br />some great victory <br />in my naive soul. <br /> <br />Now, my face <br />is as long <br />as a vet's glove. <br />My sunken eyes <br />leave me reading words <br />that simply return <br />to scratch and bite, <br />not fitting, <br />not rhyming, <br /> <br />not right.<br /><br />Ian Bowen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/long-as-a-vet-s-glove/
