Where The Streets Have No Blame
I pass you on the desolate streets,
huddled under weather-worn blankets,
in dimly lit, dank shop doorways,
the smell of wandering urine is acidic,
forlorn expressions etched on forgotten faces.
I hear you, see you, shouting at midday,
lurid catcalls of misunderstood intimidation,
human traffic bustles and flows around
ripped and shunned obstacles, inconvenient detours.
Street people stagger and stare.
This is a post-modern, humanist world
of intuition and towering achievements,
advanced machine algorithms of wealth,
shimmering hope invoked by a Golden Age,
metaphorical castles, lines of suburban sanctuary.
Young runaways escape broken adolescence,
addicts drawn by the lure of perpetual absenteeism,
a social conscience punctured and torn,
lost souls selling a short-lived notion
of a life of freedom without the need to care.
Build them the safety of houses, bring them in
from the bitter winds of undecided fate.
These meandering wanderers are a reflection
of who we all are in another time and place.
Help at hand, if we want and wish hard enough.
Image free to use at https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Image1-65_Allan_Warren.JPG