The roads are lit with street lamp haze
as traffic lights play coloured games;
keeping time over a metal ebb and flow.
Paths shuffled upon by wandering feet
fall out of sync with congested streets;
no guiding colours - none that they know.
On a path's inner edge lies one, torn;
cardboard mattress and clothes well worn.
On they shuffle as he shivers away.
The moon shines not off his matte skin,
yet light trickles through to a space within
and there he cries - blessed be old age.
And on they shuffle, no soul to their lives,
nor the beating of hearts whilst prying for lies.
Who would buy his past for pennies and dimes?
It is sad when we pass those in need and seem to be oblivious to their misfortunes. It happens too often in life, be they the homeless on the streets or the starving children who have to walk miles a day just to find dirty water that can kill them. As Brenda says: a sad state of affairs.
It is very sad indeed, especially when you take the time to talk to them for a few minutes and learn about some of their histories. One man here was an engineer who worked on building the Sydney harbour bridge. When the job was done, apparently so was he.
Thank you for taking the time to comment, good sir :)
Maher, I keep having to come back to this because I don't know what to comment without being so blunt or whatever. As you know I usually like ripping poetry to pieces (lol) but I can't with this piece it's just so beautifully written and enthralling that all I can say is I'm gutted you can't vote at the weekend and that I'm out of votes until Tuesday so going to add it to my faves so I can nominate it as soon as I can.
The meaning of this piece is very very powerful.
All the best, Em