|Image courtesy of Magpie Tales/Skip Hunt|
It sits silent and still; blades do not move.
Instead of a sirocco-god, it's now
only a rusted, black-eyed Susan. You’ve
got to look close, in order to see how
it once spun silver…centrifugal pow-
ered. At present, on corrugated sheets
of metal, it meets metal and dies. Trow…
Time, in time, eventually defeats
turbines, wind-sails and the human being.
We all get old if we’re not in some groove.
Yet, in knowing this, it’s somehow freeing
since (save for self) there’s nothing else to prove.
Notes: The poetic form is Pantoum. It was inspired by the above picture-as-prompt, kindly provided for by Magpie Tales. It's not my usual humorous(ish) piece, granted, but the words just seemed to come out that way and I decided to go with it.
On the other hand, regarding humor, perhaps I should re-title my post "Fan Page.' Just kidding.