Poetry

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He is a man
lying on the streets,
his tattered brown hat
caught up in the wind
drifts away,
like the lifelong dream he once held,
his hair and beard
soak up his tears,
his shoes are ripped,
toes protruding,
his pants worn out,
the colour faded,
his shirt bland with stains,
his jacket of ancient fabric
still feels warm,
his left hand is covered
by a plain glove
hiding bruises,
his right hand holds a bottle,
empty.
To some he is a mystery,
to others he is dangerous and cunning,
to the woman passing by he isn’t there,
to the one in the fine suit he is a bad smell,
to the concerned parent he is a pedophile,
to the elderly he is a wasted life,
to the vigilant he is a drunkard,
to the wealthy he is an unwanted beggar,
yet circumstances could never change
what he is before God.
A beautiful child.

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