Walking down the dim-lit path
Whistling to Beethoven’s Fourteenth Sonata,
With admiration to the moonlight path,
Littered with the bodies of drunken old men,
The crunch of the ice, the snow clinging to the boot,
The fires in trash cans, the scrounging for money
The rot of alcohol and filth pollutes the air,
Under the bridge, a most depressing place.
This gathering of unwelcome guests, a man without a place.
Out of the bridge, shows the moon once again,
With tears falling from its gentle craters.
As it falls to the ground, a gem shows its landing.
A gem that when gazed into, one can only see oneself,
Littered on the street, a drunken old man.