Trodden

a walk through the front door
beaten, and head hung in dismay,
his only escape be in that scowl he wore
as he dusted off, preceding his play

he reached for his leather
binding so restricted yet aged
battle worn from years of weather
and stacked on his shelf, nicely caged

His words written down within,
only his thoughts and feeling adorning,
amongst the pages, his feelings wore thin
and every day his tales would be warning

emotions poured out over restless nights,
admonishments told, as if in Greek
his leisures {his lovers} and conquests of plight
and all his words that, to people, could not speak

This sad and poor soul, every night would escape
and dust off his journal to fill it to the brim
though his words were dear, and his incites quaint
they would never be peered by a friend or skimmed