Not Just For Christmas
A poem
A poem
I walk down streets where beggars sleep,
and painted whores
idly count the sorrowed seconds, one by one.
Dying stars are no surprise to those
who have walked these streets before.
Crumpled leaves of time go tumbling by,
as thoughts drift aimlessly
across the hourglass of my mind,
like silken sand upon a soft and crackled lace,
and fast-fading light, that mirrors my soul
News that rocked the world will be my bed.
A cardboard shield will catch the wind
that chills my bones,
as silently, I mouth those meaningless words,
through crusted, frosted lips that barely move,
seasons greetings to one and all.