About a City. The streets themselves contain life, Like a vessel contains its goods, Or a body harbours its soul. For good or bad who can say But still the polluted streets breathe And draw in our human lives. They nourish those that ask of it, From others discarded waste, Feeding from the wheelie bin nipple. Providing shelter in its hive like form Doorsteps, underpass or bridge, Like a cage with an open door. A home provided lacking safety heat Or comfort. But still a bed provided. The only home those that ask shall have. A double edged sword the London Street, Giving shelter in its hand, in the other The downfall thrust; drugs assault and drink. Times have changed since cardboard city, Housing reform and cleaner streets London still houses the unseen man. Sights of London plain to see, black taxi The red bus. The gypsy underground, swaddling A screaming babe, playing on our sympathy. The beggar with greasy hand out stretched Pleading like some canine eyes, oblivious are we. Walk on by with unnatural tunnel vision. When you next down the capital streets And see invisible souls in every form, Stop and think how many steps away are you. One wrong turn one misjudged corner then, Maybe you’d be in this one way dead end street Thanks for freedom, unchained to byway, road or street
Reason for writing:
Written again about London but this could be any city in the world
Birth sign: Gemini
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Mike Malone.