Island

We live in a cardboard city it is an island of lost souls and beggars who shuffle about in the cloth of another time and place that have turned into rags which clings to our skins like scabs there is no tomorrow only the long dreary moment that's lived on the corner of no return and unbearable where the survivors come to wallow in sorrow having crashed their lives on the barren rocks of choices this is a grimy dirty island of garbage and filth where everyone hides their true intentions and trust no one not even our names are real the streets beneath these broken lamp-posts are a cold lonely place we have become a lepper colony to pass by filled with ghostly figures who stubble about with our stolen grocery carts driven by addiction and greed as we search for victims like vultures searching for rotten flesh we'll pluck with insatiable appetites we live without hope, without care seeking those with empathy to give us a few dollars so we may release our pains and grow numb with whatever we can find we never see the sunset only the coming of night where we'll crawl into the shadows to hide from dealers and pimps who sometimes bring death a cold lonely death that frees us from despair the only way off our island 3/2/23 contest Writing Challenge-I words sponsor Constance La France "Island"