He sits on a stained street with dirt crusted feet. Tired and drained. Shaky hand out for change.
He tried to change. His path soaked in rain. Filled gutters. We shutter. He is lost but he knows these streets.
Mapped out by stars that walk past in heels. He hears them whine.
Bars closed to his kind. No shoes no service. Holy shirt. No church.
Wholesome people wont even smile at his style. He says God bless to the stressed dressed in suits not suited for his side of town.
They think he’s crazy all that spinning around. Talking to ghosts I suppose.
His harsh voice tunes out the cars swerving. So loud. Too fast they pass.
No blinker. Split second they think to read the sign. His two seconds in time when others pay attention.
No mention their affliction. He says he’s on that drink. He stinks and sinks down to greet the ants.
His heart hard as concrete. Others paved his way.
This man seeks no pity from beings that walk by with their tall towering vanity. Though high he still looks down. Where’s the sanity?
Some speak and seek to find his soul in the trash heap that reeks. Someone’s past is his treasure.
The sun and wind not a friend to the leathered face weathered by time. His eyes closed. No crime to commit just spit and vomit.
It’s his routine, you see, this man of the streets. Obsession, no, addiction to the fluid to which he begs. He needs.
Bruised legs and bleeding toes. Cause for infection. Deception. Stuck in this place. Hides his face. Lost this race.
Heart kept thrown in the bin for years. trapped dehydrated, he waited.
Too long he spent cash fast on spinning lights and a quick fix. This man is sick. Low he has gone.
Perfected his song. Pay no mention to his fashion. Perception seems to trump compassion.