The Telling-Tale Of The Miser... Poem by Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr

He held his thoughts deep

in the bottom of his pockets

but only just because

his wallet felt too thick

with currency from forest trees;

kept exclusively to himself,

reclusively...abandonly

to himself, for himself;

the type that Dickens would woo,

and in the imperious absence-

of the gift called human kindness.

And this be very sad,

though he knew nothing else,

he trusted not... any soul,

skeptical, and imprisoned

to the paranoid mind within-

himself, by himself, for himself,

bare of rosy heart-

in his private world of privilege;

that he, himself built-

with the cheapest fiber of greed

and other penurious means;

and he'll live and he'll die

with his treasure left behind,

and, no doubt, not a clue

why nobody came to pay

their respects over his casket,

which was paid for in advance,

in the event, the price of tin went up.

Respect must be earned,

Kindness, a given,

neither harvest greed.




©Frank James Ryan, Jr./FjR
MMXIX- All Rights Reserved