What can be believed living in the street?
He could only find peace
From the pages covering his feet
While those with good mothers fight
Over who’s wrong and who’s right
The corner dust forms a memorial
On a vacant Victorian seat

Their words died before they became deeds
Nothing mattered of his past
It could not fill his needs
He tried not think of her
There was nothing he could offer
Through his piercings he bled
But there was no water for his seeds

He looked to the heavens for paintings
But dreams in cloudless skies
Cannot be imagined when it’s raining
The corner was his
But it’s no place to live
Our faces are the measure of his worth
For he knows who he is displeasing