Upon realising there is no escaping the truth
A filthy river trundles on, its greasy skin I see
As a sun shines forth on an empty morn
To rise the cursed in front of me.
Plastic bags from branches dangle,
The fruit of progress blooms,
As shaken wretches stir from slumber
Soiled by a fated gloom.
I hear the rumbles, not of trains but tummies bloated tight
And smell the rancid putrid flesh
Of life escaped through futile night.
I dare to touch, I dare to hold,
But I dare not to weep
For then the wounds may never close
And onwards does that river creep.
The worn feet, the blistered smiles,
Some twisted limbs in motion not in style
As a glossy page floats laughing by.
I watch, observe
The blurry shape,
The form a reflection,
A shadow of me.
How much I wonder does it want to see.