Unexpected

Sometimes, in the search for nothing in particular, you find something that hits home. But then again I live under a rock.

Apparently James A. DeMoss was from Kansas and wrote poetry from the mid to late 1800's.

Some beings live from day to day

Without a thought;

Whose solemn moments pass away

And soon forgot.

Each day as but an idle dream

Of little worth;

And to the dormant mind 'twould seem

His life a curse.

It is a fruitless life indeed;

Ah, yes, 'tis worse

Than fruitless, and of little need

E'er to rehearse.

Not only do they bear no fruit

Of value great,

Nor deeds of any good repute

Would fain create,

But worse by far than fruitless toil,

They sink at last

Into despair, a worthless spoil,

Forgotten past.

Ah, sad to see a wasted form

All ghastly lay,

A victim to life's every storm,

A helpless prey.

All damned here by his worthless self,

Ignoble slave;

A victim of his hand bereft,

His trust did wave.

Worthlessness-James A. DeMoss