The wheel of life turns slowly -

And salty libations of sorrow

Mark each turn that carries

Him to a dim tomorrow -

That will be just like today -

And days that follow after.

Shorn of purpose - bereft of love -

Bare of joy or laughter.

The weakened spokes,

The pitted rim,

Give beneath the load.

Who’ll stop to pity him

Lying shattered, in the road?