Homeless

A bag faced bottle muncher
chugs down the dregs of his wishes and dreams
Surrounded by the gleam of a farcical means to an inevitable end
He hides his strides in the cut corner shadows of an undeniable evolution in the wrong direction
The fashionable outlines patrol the edges of light
Guarding their precious reality very closely so
His scratchy shuffle steps grind clear-cut pathways
in the tar pit darkness
Never to set a step in their world again.
His head hangs so low
Bowed and blinded by his own tainted reflection
In this, his matchstick haven
Stumble mumbles pour from his glands like sweat secretion
As he risks to lift his hand at his help point spot
Where the fashionables recoil with repulsion
Some days he is lucky
Most days he is not