I keep bouncing with the motion of the chaos and commotion as I trip
out on the strange things that I see. It’s the man walking down the
street stumbling haphazardly with bare feet, seemingly lost to the
streets where he stays. I follow steps behind, with attention in my
mind that he is not a simple social disease. It’s not the shell that I
see as I look beyond the dirt and the fleas, I imagine a time when back
in his prime, he was respected as a valued human being. Now hand outs
and give aways, supports the stagnation of the daze, while overall
nothing true has been done. With nothing learned and no where to grow,
what sort of tomorrow will he know, do you wonder what he honestly
believes? Can you look through his eyes and realize the horror that we
despise is embedded in his slow sordid demise?
With depression doused in malt or gin, who can really call the
addiction a sin, when no one truly offers him a place to fit in. With a
cracked life embittered with strife, he succumbs to his own internal
decay, as the hurt he tries to hide is clouded with vapors that eats his
mind, when he attempts to step out of phase with the pain. Is it the
wounded pride that refuses to comply with the rules of greed’s society
or is it the numbing of the brain and the lack of control needed to
maintain his sense of social decency? Well, I don’t know where he goes
as the hard rain comes and the sharp wind blows, does he cower in a
corner of these shiny metal towers, hoping to find some shelter from the
strain. While looking at this man, with tattered clothes and calloused
hands, I saw a sliver of his youth, not shabby or uncouth, but a man of
dreams not born of the streets, now left to sleep on crumbling concrete.
Now we recycle paper bags and tin cans, but we rarely open a hand to
the man who hides in a box, except put him in a cage with taxpayers’
locks. When a path of painful desperation leads to problematic
situations, can we blindly ignore the day and assure ourselves as we
say, “There is no better way.” To deal with what’s real, starvation or
to steal, it’s easy to philosophize when your soul has not been
compromised and you still hold onto your ideals. Well, I don’t know
what makes him tick, even though the spirit seems corroded and sick,
maybe his dream still exists as his stench festers under thick grit.
The fears of life or the doubts of death, which hangs on when the power
has left another worker behind, lost in numbers for the corporates’
bottom line. Now the greed creates a schism with the social altruism as
they build with tunnel vision to succeed. With so much to do within our
time and the money spent on the industrial divide, when will wealth and
novelty balance with minds opened sensibly? Maybe that is too much to
ask from those who deploy the tasks of servants, without consideration
for the lives they bleed to lead. Modern progress builds on the bones
of the past, a memory lost to the future, shattered like broken glass,
withering in the world beyond, contributions to the day dead and gone.
Strands of existence being sliced and frayed as consolidation pounds
away, behind the doors of wood and brass, the boundaries of dollars
stretch to outlast the shadows of the outcasts.
Written by: C.D Flash
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