Third Down and a Long Way To Go

Of those who have lost their places in life; And may display their misgivings with a frown; For them little time seems left for change; And hope is at best the name of a jester now passed. And on the bus bench sits an orator; Chanting coos to the pigeons While they feed upon droppings; Of his spilled over indulgences. And someone cries out to Jesus for justice; But no one answers; For there are only those of which; Share the same destitutions that are listening And I find myself piggybacking conceptualities; And repeating what’s seen or heard; only to wonder if; In the quantum of time to travel has; This life we think we live; already come and gone. And the shadows are now so much longer; While fear becomes prevalent and stronger; And when the time for to pay comes ever near; Perhaps it’s those voices that cried out we’ll hear.