
Clearance; a poem,
Alas, my search is fruitless, Just withered on the vine, Left till ancient, rotted, Nothing left to find.
Once fresh, and whole, Left for far too long, Never quite right for anyone, Till my shine was gone.
No discount or promotion, No deals that could be made, Slowed anyone down to look at me, I just watched the parade.
Marked down many times, Even tried to give me away, And still nobody wanted me, Depression and dismay.
Till finally the day would come, When my time at last had past, And removed and discarded, I was tossed into the trash.
No one gave me value, Or saw potential in me, Once I was collected, Plucked virtuous from the tree.
I was not special, It was just my time, I could be plucked and sold, Or left to wither on the vine.
blemished, darken, imperfect, Yet still sweet below the skin, Cast away, rejected, The lost and found of men.
a poem by D. Wyn. Price, All Rights Reserved, 2020.