There is nothing of me

There is nothing of me

In the beholding

An empty vessel

A noise maker

Unworthy of the name

There is no wisdom

Only an accumulation

Of years

Allied with wit

To play the game

I know nothing of fortune

Or fame

Pass on by

There is little of interest

Every word is small beer

In comparison

To a sleeping giant

I am but a vagabond

Wordsmith

Sentence building

Two words short of a soliloquy

There is no meat

Just dry boned

Cliches clinging to the carcass

Scraps for the crows

To fight over

There is little left

Of my contribution

It will come up short

Run counter

To the balance

I would have hoped for

In the beginning

When for a moment

There were things

I thought I knew

And always meant to say.