Into the torn trilby upright stands a feather Hiding hair enthused with dirt and a touch of woodland heather Blood shot eyes look tired and heavily sunken From the bottled spirits that the mouth has frequently drunken A Scarf hangs down which was once so beautifully green Hard to envisage it when it was vibrant, pristine and so clean Rivers of blood dribble down a grey woolly chin From tins and cans creeping out of an overflowing bin Hidden clothes under mould spots and wretched smells A heart thatβs barely alive miraculously somehow still dwells On cardboard is scribbled a beg for food and change Well worded and well meant but with a hint of subtle derange Humanity shuffles past like ghosts lost in time Rejecting and ignoring his pleas for help, attention and social climb Stuck in a painful slumber and thinking what could have been A ***** is now a figurine derived from a portrait made from the obscene