He lies in pain writhing vaguely
Fighting the gripping pain in his stomach,
He the shadow of a society
A civilized society
That lives a dead life.
In the dead of the night
The homeless eyes shrunken deep
Burning like amber
The eyes of a soul neglected.
The tree cries too for him by shedding a few leaves
And, under that tree, he found his way to be free
The wind sings too, a solemn breeze for this man,
Whose life is but the shadow of our ignorance.
Tonight, perhaps tonight will be the last night of him
As the night goes deeper,
Bloodsucking creatures began to climb on him.
The tattered shirt is no more a shirt
But rags worn over a dying body,
That we use to wipe off the dirt of our feet.
A body long forgotten by the living
For they live a materialists civilization.
Thrown on one person, or perhaps more
By cohesive civilized ignorance
He, a loser not. Laziness perhaps a word rusted.
They ‘whys’ of this man’s life is not the question here.
Insignia of our ignorance
The homeless is our shadow of selfishness
Placing our feet along the same route daily
Hardly to our heart this homeless finds his way.
The shadow is dying.
Our shadow is dying.
The homeless
A phantom for us.
A phantom for us.
©cyclopseven. All rights reserved050711
a touchy poem, Cyclops,
ReplyDeletebut that scene may have many stories to say, than seen from the outset - in our cities it is a mafia out there...not all, but that is a reality too,
wishes,
devika
'Insignia of our ignorance'
ReplyDeleteWell said my friend.
Them who wipe their feet on the homeless are the true homeless ones.
ReplyDeletea sad post. A homeless life is the reflection of our selfishness, but this post I'm sure has many for facets than the obvious one.
ReplyDeleteVery touching!
ReplyDelete