'61' (Under the Bridge)

I see the desolate stares of the poor huddled masses. Clothes piled in a corner, a woman stirs as each person passes. The putrid smell of weed and urine fills the air, I choke on the smell. I search my soul and my heart cries out to those that live in this Hell -- An abyss where people go to get away from the harsh realities of this world. The grief I feel for those who lay upon the ground, with sleeping bags unfurled. I listen in earnest to stories of suffering and pain that seem to fill this place. I see the lines and creases upon the brow of a woman with haggard face. The Lord has brought the good news forth to those poor, broken spirits. Isaiah, humble prophet, summoned to preach to all who'd hear it. Sweet Jesus, send fourth your love and mercy to those under the bridge and Lord I pray that the words I write will summon faith and courage, to those who attempt to turn blind eye to these poor souls in need. America, cover not your ears to the poor, and my words I beg you take heed.