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Apr 2018
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 that’s 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
Written by
Andrew James Shepherd  Burnage
(Burnage)   
83
 
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