Underneath the Bridge
Low, way below the wrought, rain and sun-beaten
asphalt of man
Dwell empty, hungry, crying souls in search of
the master's plan
Some black and some white, some young and some
old
All tears shed the same when their sad, sad story is
told
The constant roaring of cars as they speedily pass back
and forth from atop
Music, yes, this is their sweet melody that plays on and on
nonstop
Their TV gets unlimited channels and the shows are all the
way live
Real TV at its absolute best, capturing the conceivable and
inconceivable of those in the concrete jungle trying to survive
Walking city streets by day in search of a better way
A nice little spot underneath the bridge at nightfall to lay
their heads from a long, weary day
Fugacious comfort is found in the comforter they call cardboard and all
sorts of sordid garments
City lights gently intermingle with dusk to signify the end
of another day and hope for a better tomorrow with all of her
empty promises
Copyright © Stewart Watkins | Year Posted 2017
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