Do you see the fractured mind?
Always solitude in any crowd.
Monologue conversation with ether friends.
Normals, gracious, to side-step confrontation.
This street nomad once had a home,
where soft cotton sheets
greeted a weary head.
Now yesterday’s man sleeps
with yesterday’s news.
Ikea packaging his castle.
McDonalds doorway his address.
Dining in suburbia; before the bins are emptied.
Breathing life into discarded cigarette,
~two drags, before fingertips burn.~
Begging barman’s dregs from beer tap overflow.
Habit deems he return to old haunts,
wandering desolate corridors.
Bed-side table, tombstone to the past.
Epitaph carved in the false wood.
A lost tear slips to the floor.
Where justice has no meaning,
and the backwards glance of integrity
is laced with daggers.
Liberal forces, wrapped in piety,
declared, in false ignorance, this sanctuary
for broken men; broken minds,
should be no more.
From the carpeted corridors of power,
inside their shielded wombs
a piece of humanity died.
Copyright © Colin Marschall