The streets are filled with souls wanting, lost lives that live lies to survive, rather than face the reality they alone have created. Choice is always ours, and although we may feel sorry for those lost in poverty and crime and all manner of survival ploys, we individually are always responsible for our circumstance. Realising we are able to overcome any adversity is not easy for some, but that truth can transform what they believe as an impossible task. This poem is about such streets, where desperation is a constant, and happiness is non-existent.
Lonely drifting flotsam rise
to greet the breeze and dusty lies,
remnants of the night now passed,
bottles glint in rays repast,
as shadows cringe.
Swirling they in blustered time,
scraps and paper flighted, rhyme,
as one homeless man in a foetal embrace
far away, no conscious trace,
in death-like stillness.
Long shadows dim mark the streets,
infringing light as dreams release,
but not a stir from lives on a lease,
pay for grit and a relenting, seek,
each day another burden.
All those words from night’s pretence,
echo hard in a waking sense,
regrets so filled with rancid lies,
self-abuse and silent cries
stale in their memory.
But as light enters this abyss,
they stir to know there’s more of this,
and stumble they to feel alive,
bourbon breakfast and compromise
just to keep on going.
And thoughts of crime and money speak,
another day to havoc reek,
anything to avenge the thoughts,
the realisation of days fraught with despair,
far easier not to care.
Lethargic bodies wander,
soundless steps on stony paths, ponder,
how they came to be
in this cold and heartless sea of humanity,
Solemn faces never grace,
fallen souls, human traces
yet dulled down to a mechanical whole,
emotions less able to hold
in this the street of lies.
Tony DeLorger © 2018
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