Invisible to the naked eye
Urban foot soldiers never stop to wonder why this science project gone awry
Their charity is haphazard
No carpet under their feet
The incessant pleas drown, like prayers under a silent sound
Is the cold insistent concrete
Hands reaching finding no relief
A fools paradise within their grasp
Anything to escape this gray beat,
When all you can carry is the past
Spare the crumbs of elegant meals
To assuage the conscious mind
The road to immortality has been paved and sealed
With the green of generosity
Always courtside..aren’t these the best seats?
Underground, undertow, hand to mouth
What glory do they now suppose?
Wash yourselves of them
Their foul, their stench
Covered in the loneliness
Of defeat
Chasing sparrows into the elusive blue
Stained with the muck of yesterday
Tattered, torn,
Is this the brown cloak of warmth?
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Submission Name: Home is where the street is
