Hooded figures beg sorry eyed
In tortured shivers on wet, rainy days
The cold, damp clothes never dry,
Their sleeping bag, open, in the way
This wretched world still the same.
Lost promises with haunted looks,
Both homeless, bullied then vilified
With cruel pangs of devilish hunger,
For the soup kitchens by design
Remind humanity “Hey, I am alive”.
In offshore seas their havens thrive,
Pampered, grasping, rights by birth,
As high gated walls deafen the cries,
A class above with moneyed thirst
Pour traditions of unchristian worth.
The change of shoes mends a soul
As mansions grow, concern slides
And social orphans nowhere to go.
Money’s not the cure, only a divide
And never enough is the reply.
Copyright © mark palmer | Year Posted 2017