I want to know some things, but
Nobody seems to talk about them,
These things that bother me.
Like what could the matter be
With people that drive by and see
They don’t speak to them and ask.
Why they are lying on the sidewalks.
If there were some, we'd lie on the grass.

Did your family die off and leave
Or will you weave a story of theft
Or madness, or just poverty?
Something has made you bereft.
Is it that you don’t have a home
So you must sleep here outdoors,
In slowly graying pants and coats,
Someone for richer folks to ignore?

Oh, I know. I am the same as you
Nothing much to lay claim to;
No car, no house, no cell phone.
Not even a magazine to thumb through.
I’m beginning to stink a little bit
And, my clothes are getting worse
Every week I live beneath a bridge.
And I know when my life got perverse.

So, maybe you can understand
When I blurt out my deep self-pity.
Is it me that has gotten so bad
Or is it that we survive in a city?
I remember when prices got high
And I could no longer keep up
And now I find myself begging for
A bit of warm coffee in a cup.

Once I was the stranger walking
That passed by here and saw you.
I wanted to help, but I did not.
Then, I didn’t know what to do.
Today it is more or less the same,
I don’t know how to live this way;
Mooching coins from strangers,
Scavenging for food every night
And sleeping like this during day.

Oh, please forgive me, I apologize.
I understand why you are scowling.
When I had a chance to help you
I averted my eyes and kept walking.
But now it is me here on the street
And suddenly I’m asking for sympathy,
To take pity, when I never really did,
When I never really qualified for any.

Colonial buildings litter the sidewalk,
derelict and rundown. A past that
is fading into the bustle of the street.
Casts mingle, but prejudice lingers.

Tuk-tuks weave through out streets,
collecting tired feet that need a rest.
collecting lunch off street venders,
who greet with smiles, as aromas linger.

Street children, parentless masses sit
on the steps, hands wondering for rupee's.
The taxi doesn't stop, so they shower the path
with change, and they think of their baby at home.

As the old world fades, heritage still lingers.
but contradictions of what was and is contest.
Old ways grasp at the change, but our streets
will soon be a metropolis of fading faces.

"Is this a good thing? or are we moving to fast.

I was richer on the street than
any riche who swung his wrist
like a pendulum swaying like
others owed them respect.

Throwing leaves of wealth at
us thinking we were migrant
gardeners picking, cleaning up
there garden of smirking pity.

But while they slumber in sheets
of old slave mills. I have gratitude
that my sheets are full of my pain.
Full of tears, on cold woeful nights.

I collect myself in dignity of living
below others feet, but my riches are
what I've learnt, that put me higher
than any would be kings or thieves.

Words are that which  empower me
as I slumber on clean sheets of syllables,
weaving into my dreams. Then woken
by a librarian letting me humble my mind.

This place is my castle that never falls,
where I have risen higher than there feet.
But still I gaze from below, as I do not need
a castle, the streets are my pages this I speak.

blind faith
lead them to believe
in a charlatan
like moles they were
sightless
to the false god

they were following
he who had nothing
of the Messiah's
tangible fabric

never did it dawn
on them
that he was selling
a religion based
on disrepute
none of his disciples
being overly astute

and still they're listening
and still they're standing
with his stead
and still they can't eye
the paucity of street cred