They lay upon the streets
choking on their own.
Mounds of people
desolate in their being.
Wait.
And breathe in again.
Kicked in the gut,
split like lumber.
This is a home.
Animals have a home.
Wait.
And breathe in again.
Boxes propped up in the rain.
Empty cans rot.
Feeding is done.
Could they have hunger?
Is it ours that they’re hungry?
Wait.
And breathe in again.
Displaced assassination.
Soul tainted by remark.
Hold. The starving soul echoes back
and lives in our queried gaze.
Is this anyone’s “life”?
Wait.
And breathe in again.
Shoes leaking dirt on new snow.
Fingers hold paper canopy
encasing country’s dishonor.
This is not a life, is it?
I think it is best to live.
Wait.
And breathe in again.
Perhaps the hand will move.
Will hope spring?
Will death take notice of this?
Will the good in man change them?
Will our naked shame bow softly?
Will we course this toward nurturing?
Will the hope of man succumb to hunger?
Will the pride of man not rip itself from within?
Might it begin?
Has it now?
Wait.
And breathe in again.
Men, women, and children, living ghosts,
alleyways of mankind infested with distrust,
cursing the self bending through our streets
of our cities and towns to our own expense.
We needn't turn away in shame, or fear of this,
fingernails caked in dirt, soiled clothes and hair.
Run from it and it rests with you.
Mock it and it returns within you.
Spit upon it and you stir death.
Attempt to remedy, hope, love, salvation
and you turn its hastening back.
Wait.
And breathe in again.
We know these stooped forms are among us.
We know the hand extended is not in greed.
We know we needn’t fear its power,
unless we are soulless and more in need of seeking.
Hope shall soar.
Death will perceive.
The good of man shall foster change.
These bones and faces
are found in every man.
These hopes and despair
frequent the soul’s café,
drinking in the fullness of grace.
Wait.
And breathe in again.
We must believe in the true nature.
We must hope for the caressing of our beings,
beckoning man’s better self, his courage,
that it might rise up, swell within to champion,
take hold our slipped fingers in desire of betterment,
prayers of expectant selfless endeavors,
freedom to ring not hollow,
but thunderous in the flattered ears of politicians!
Booming through the streets of home,
piercing and raucous about this world,
man summoning to man on these cold streets!
As we meander nearer the darkness,
nearer the end,
many will have gleaned over before we know
our echo's come `round again.
Man cannot wait, not upon the streets
of new snow…
...breathe in again.
Copyright © 2006 mark prime / thepoetryman
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