An old oil can
Burns sea salted driftwood
In a night
That swallows whole
The ancient surf
Batters sand
They huddle around
For warmth.
These lost souls
Share their alcohol
Earned by begging
On a dirty street
Each has a story to tell
But this is not the time
Gradually each to sleep
Succumbing to the wine.
The morning breaks
As do the waves
Life now in technicolor
Hard and bright
Back to the dirty street
Beg again until the night.
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Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: February 5th, 2025 03:19
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 38
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Poetic Licence
Offline)
Comments4
And so we all drift from fantasy or dreams where we escape the reality and light of day. A great metapor with wonderful imagry tell this story. Lovely
Many thanks
The harsh reality of being homeless, good imagery as you read through this piece, really enjoyed the read
many thanks for those kind comments
You are very welcome
Quite a cycle in different variations, how do we ‘beg’ and ‘succumb’ only to do it all again, over and over again! 🙏🏻🕊
so very true, thanking you
BRAVO
so glad you liked it, thanks
You're welcome
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