a freestyle sonnet about being truly forgotten (non-politically)

Enjoying the accumulated wild style sights 
of built up sediments in forgotten spaces 
the rat race has deemed useless; left for troglodytes 
like myself, forever cruising wasted places, 

tasting the grace of man and nature still shaking 
hands, knowing that people and the land is kinfolk. 
Sitting on discarded soapstone slab, sun baking, 
listening to my uncle the river invoke 

ancient tongues from before concrete sprung from the Earth 
in shady clusters. I've got no need for progress 
cemented in the delusions of abstract worth; 
y'all putting on collective airs, which more or less 

manufactures stress which our intestines all feel... 
as a natural born loser, I know the deal.