This forgotten soul,
alone he fends off the bitter cold.
in years he's young but life he's old;
left to slowly fade away,
to gather dust and decay.
Between these narrow shelves he waits,
a somber look paints his face.
huddled under filthy blankets;
Longing for a loving embrace,
yet alone he sits in this putrid place.
Left to whither away,
day after day,
he sits idly by his lonesome corner,
passers-by, they turn to mourners.
And night after night,
they play futile games,
of cat and mouse;
like wild beasts they corral and tame,
the man who has lost his name.
Looking on with eyes full of pity,
but we are the one who are truely guilty.
To be left in squallor,
and live futile lives,
while other thrive,
he struggles to survive.
And with these measly coins,
I give to you,
please do not spend,
on drugs or booze.
Yet we are ones who have misconstrued,
and cannot possibly comprehend nor transcend,
our particularities and singularities.
And indeed it is a certainty,
that these misconceptions and preconceptions manifest,
in even the best of us,
but just like the rest of us,
given such circumstances,
granted, that is,
if you'd had no chances;
perhaps you would shake this empty can,
a broken man,
devoid of dignity,
a victim of circumstance principally.
And these people-
they don't require our sympathies;
all they want is a loving hand,
but a little help to stand,
yet many would rather we plan
to keep them out of way,
hidden between darkened alleyways,
needles line these empty passageways,
now where his lifeless body lays.
But it was life that broke him,
and chose to take him,
and it was we who failed to see,
but now atleast he can be free,
after enduring so many years of agony,
succumbing to apathy,
his collapsed viens the remenants,
of years he abused this substance,
but these are the forgotten,
the lowly and downtrodden,
a wandering sailor lost at sea,
to never be known and lost in history.
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