number 48

scorched concrete broken bottles

         bus fare not enough rain comes

huddle in the mass of 300 cots cries for help

a man is lost behind himself he now sees

         in front of him are wading genteel lakes

his hands metaphorically cut off at the wrist

                closing his eyes he dreams of hills

opening them again he seeks to seal a reality

            that comes in colors mainly blues and blacks

his mind aloof with a potion of castles in a foreign land

    where the weather is gentle and his feet kiss the sand

in the banks of a river holding the dusking sky

        number 48 is called to sit at the chair

we don’t have room for you try back next week

       he looks down and looks up again

out of the building to sidewalks of pain

    three blocks from Wall street

the birds start to sing     the river is placid

    the hills are rolling    skies are all yawning

      the fire she roars inside of the castle           a new king explores

8 thoughts on “number 48

      • You are welcome.

        As a matter of fact, I knew this friend I use to go to high school with. He is I think homeless and it sadden me so much because he was doing so well and had a great job. I don’t know what happen, but from time to time I still see him though when I’m driving to go run errands. I drive around to see if I still see him and he is gone by the time I circle around. One day, I want to talk to him and buy him lunch. 😦

        Liked by 1 person

  1. Pingback: Photo prompt round-up: Castle #writephoto | Sue Vincent's Daily Echo

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