Some People Are A Gift To The World Poem by Mark Heathcote

Some people are a gift to the world.
'But these they're ghouls.' Who knows what's best
and often, it's to fill their own coffer's war chest
or-simply to be mean, bemoans and say theirs-is
a higher purpose for all, and is the greater good.
Let's isolate him and her and demonise them,
what use are they to us now we've got what we want?

Some people are a gift to the world
and are only spoken of with affection
after they shuffle off this mortal coil.
They might not have a feather-light-touch,
but doesn't mean we should miss-quote them;
turn them into monster cave-dwelling wyverns,
just-so-we-can pokes them with a long-pointed stick.

Some people are a gift to the world
but are left behind like used-up wrapping paper
taken for all they've got and then discarded.
They're - superfluous for purpose, for usage
once their-purse has been emptied
and their will's inheritances are manipulated
and their properties and homes are disrespected.

Some people are a gift to the world
but it isn't always noticed.
Because of the rat race therein, it just trundles on.
There's a momentum that can't be slowed
and if you're a soft touch and won't-be-told
you'll end up sold down the river
not paned gold but the discards of old sediment.