Grey Streets

It shakes off the bad dreams of the night before Underneath the sickly blue neon sign that Buzzes it's contempt for him. It's eyes stay closed not wanting to see The misery that lay before him Down the grey street. It lumbers along in boots of pain, hair on fire And bones that want to escape the shriveled skin That once beheld a man of Dreams and satiny wishfulness. It plods along past windows whose treasures Escape him while floating Down the grey streets. It thirsts for a taste, just a taste to escape The reality and the birthing of fear. A quarter here, a quarter there from Sneering people whose disgust is broad And unforgiving to those whose trek is unbroken Down the grey streets. Night soon falls on the denizen of cardboard As it approaches the lair of others who Through bent light discuss the words on Shredded documents that preview their lives. They each have a fable to tell if you listen to souless songs Down the grey streets. A crumbled statue whose fetal position Lays between rags and dirt, prays for dreams Of gossamer wings to carry him away Far from the scourge of us and the Misery we freely give him as we trudge Down the grey streets.