My Scrapheap Poem by Michael Bisson

It was in autumn of november
The ice covered trees
My old battered kingdom
was left on its knees.

The stone cobbled pathways
Only led me to hate
They were troubled dark days
All owed by my fate.

The transition of changes
Rolled like hills threw my mind
I hung onto to these stages
Like a boat harboured at tide.

Scarred, bashed and beaten
Affraid of all light
Lost with no reason
But told I'm alright.

The scrapheap my sanction
Where I grew tree from seed
Helped me be sheltered
From the mansion of greed.

Scorn was thrown with pleasure
And guilt has no home
Slander without measure
Obsurd, yes, I know.

My life like an object,
a virus, a code
My scrapheap, my refuge
Buried amongst mould.