Auguste Romain Nyecki Poet Free verse

Dying Upright on the Sidewalk

Living on the street is dying on the street,
Slowly burning out, no grave, no last goodbye.
It is learning cold by its real first name,
The one that bites the bones and speaks to the seasons.
It is counting hours in crushed cigarette butts,
Reading the future in shuttered shop windows,
Sleeping with fear as your only blanket,
And mistaking dawn for an open wound.
Night whispers there, but strikes very hard,
Stealing dreams and putting makeup on death.
Hurrying footsteps turn into silences,
Eyes slide away, avoiding existence.
You become scenery, an authorized shadow,
A body tolerated in the corner of the sidewalk.
The world goes by, untouched, clean, prosperous,
And you remain there, fading into black.
Living on the street is dying without witnesses,
With hope punctured between two mornings.
It is surviving on your feet while the soul sits down,
And learning that dignity must be improvised.
But sometimes, deep in a fractured breath,
A spark insists on not letting go.
It still cries out, fragile and stubborn:
As long as I breathe, I am not entirely lost.

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