by Orin Griffin

He sits all alone,
On the cobblestone,
He's talking out loud to thin air.
His wild expression,
A toxic depression,
Hears voices that just are not there.

I pass by his gutter,
And gasp at the clutter,
An offensive site I deplore.
He's fallen from grace,
Fell flat on his face,
An outcast best to ignore.

He litters the street.
With his off-tone beat.
And scavenges trash for a meal.
I can tell by his smell,
That there is a Hell,
I wonder, "Just how does it feel?"

His bloodshot stare,
His wool weathered hair,
And hygiene that is not approved.
But, I cannot judge,
A man with a grudge,
Whose life has been so removed.

I'd give him a quarter,
If it were in order,
Or if it would put him at peace.
Just what would it take,
To lend him a break,
And make all his agony cease.

Around he will frolic,
An old alcoholic,
Destined to live life in breach.
He starves for attention,
In his own dimension,
Salvation is just beyond reach.

Salvation by Orin Griffin

© Copyright 2006. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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