Is it enough to smile in the face of the weary?
Stuff your face in face of the hungry?
Lace your shoes when their soles are bare?
Bear with me as I attempt,
in vain to hold myself to account.
taking for granted all the blessings I’ve been given,
that are missing in the streets.
I said to myself that my bed wasn’t comfy,
whilst another sleeps in a tent,
because a cardboard box just won’t cut it.
says the sound of loose change as it fills an,
empty cup, jingling all the way.
Sparks doused from their eyes, breath stolen by frost,
voice silenced by thirst,
yet still the clothes on their back,
remain tattered and worn,
as if an old soul were showing their age,
rage pent up in a personal hell,
if hell would ever freeze over.
Covered by scores of the dispossessed,
as scattered and lost hopes,
that flickered across the city like tungsten lamps.
Therefore, all my writing is all for naught,
because my words can’t find them homes,
and my pen and my pad can’t heal their wounds,
and my prose is buried and dead,
unable to speak for those with no voice.
“And as for me and my house”
“We serve the house of OURSELVES”.
“Divided upon itself so that this house may fall”,
says the preacher, says the clergy, says the roadman,
says the cheerful City Boy, and the average Joe (myself included),
for another Christmas year.
For all my platitudes, and beatitudes,
will never fill a mouth, save a soul, or warm a heart,
if they’d ever needed a saviour.
Guess the world needs less messiahs and more sinners,
with open pockets and open hearts,
who will never set themselves apart from a stranger.
