bedraggled and torn with
dusty,
grimy,
mottley hair,
hidden
beneath a mask of
mud and
dust, frozen
by the
dark cold of
damp snow,
as tears fall down his
face
he pulls the
newspaper closer and
sits on the hard,
cold,
concrete with
his only possesions
he has and possibly the only
he will ever own
his notebook and
pen,
as the tears slide down
upon his cheek
he spills his soul onto
a paper nobody will ever
read,
what a shame,
what a shame,
the poor faceless poet,
dying alone,
his paper as a companion and
his pen as his guide,
what a shame,
what a shame,
this faceless poet must face
his greatest fear, his
greatest hope
on the streets in a
world as harsh and dead as this,
what a shame,
what a shame.