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,

I watch,

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.

Staring silent,

Sitting unmoving,

How much I wonder does it want to see.


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