Downtown on Mainstreet, a sarcinarious empty feel, Mr.
Jones, so cold, alone, once
Hadst a home, sold his
Life for a bottle, clear
Liquid his daily meal.

Nothing in his touch but biker
Bars, where women art strung
On pills, men nightly jailed,
Life plans for prison bars,
Knives for cuts, and dope
For cars; This side of the
Street was where the
Dealers art star's.

Mr jones once a high-degreed
College lad, moved out of his
Home, he became the unknown,
Dropped out of public vision,
Traded knowledge for rich
Men's wishes, worked in
High elite positions, a man
Of superstitions, once a time
His pockets rolled with
Hundreds and fifties,
Now his clothes smell
Of cheap wine, as his eyne taste
Of death; now a holes in-
Side of his chest.

Dreaming one day, on the side
Of the cement, a being of grace,
Not of human race; an angel of
God to Mr.Jones was sent.

"Mr. Jones", the Angel didst whisper, I came to let thee knowest, im thy guardian Mr; for God almighty hast sent me to thee, to show thee second chances do exist, and sir im not make believe, mine light is God's kiss.

©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poets poetry