But For the Grace
A poem
A poem
He sits in the doorway, his head in his hands,
a face that has lived every line.
He has no ambition, life makes no demands,
other than drugs and cheap wine.
Impervious to cold in his old torn coat,
ignored by the odd passer-by,
he mumbles some words he has learned by rote,
while patiently waiting to die.
Sometimes the thick fog that clouds his dulled brain
is lifted for one or two hours,
and he can remember his past life again,
when days were all sunshine and flowers.
Though painful those thoughts, and so long ago,
they bring him some comfort and hope
that one day, tomorrow or next day, who knows?
this lost soul will find strength to cope.
