A climber creeps and crawls upon the ground;
Its props will not support but fallen down;
It does not know the destination bound;
It grows and lives on still, all on its own!
It once had flowers that had fruited well;
It now is trampled under feet of struts;
And life has changed a lot and almost hell;
It has to bear the anguish and the cuts!
Its former service done is off accounts;
Its props are climbers young, unkind and proud;
They feel they grew on own on little mounts;
They wear a mask and misty, hazy shroud!
Some youth look down upon their parents both,
And bleed their elders old, and sleep in sloth.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 26-11-2016
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