By Kurt Frazier Sr.
Whose monocle is that? Oh, I know.
Its owner is quite unsettled though.
It really is a tale called woe.
I watch him frown. I cry hello.
He gives his monocle a shake.
And sobs until the tears forsake.
The only other sound’s the break,
Of distant waves and birds awake.
The monocle is antique, broken and deep.
Alas, he has promises to keep.
Until then he shall not sleep,
He lies beneath ducts that weep.
He rises from his bitter bed,
With thoughts of sadness in his head.
He idolizes being led,
To a land where dwells no dread.
Copyright © Kurt Frazier Sr. 2019