A Samaritan Passes

Every day they call me, The battered, the shattered And the sat upon The smothered, overly mothered And the sat upon The neglected, rejected The undetected undirected And the shat upon The tattered, scattered ratted on. Every day I hear them call out, As they weep or shout or bawl out Their tales of, “Wo! I’ve had enough! Let the poisons do their stuff.” Every day I take the call Listening for something small Some flotsam in the swollen river That might allow me to deliver A faint glimmer of some hope, Turn the noose into a rope To pull them to the shore. But every day when the calls have ended And the hands of help, extended, Are inevitably pulled away, I am mostly left uncertain As to whether the final curtain Has been stayed for another day. Until at last, worn out, My own heart torn out And my own fears borne out I call out my tale of, “Wo! I’ve heard enough” © Barry Freeman - 10th May 2021