On the street stands a singer
by Steven Clotzman
Their souls are forgotten now, the testaments just tales.
Their deaths and religion though shallow, stand hailed.
And with some of their voices, now broken and failed,
Stand all the misgivings to no one's avail.
On the edge of this city, once frail but now torn,
The walls of the markets through hunger are worn.
And out of wealth's distribution come regrets to being born
And the signs on the streets are now properly ignored.
The seeds of destruction are planted in pain,
The reasons for life are not readily explained.
And the burden falls hard on the poor in the rain,
When your life's only purpose is knowing your name.
The soldiers come home from their never adjourned fights,
They work in the day and they cry in the night.
And it's never forgotten, in the cause of all plight,
That there are no survivors to the laborer's unsight.
In the alleys, where tramps lie down blinded to all,
Society looks on both shocked and appalled.
And young rebels run restless through the tenement halls
And graffiti marked walls claim that everything falls.
On the street stands a singer and a poet of strife
And he sings of his sorrow as he sings of his life.
And he stands not alone without child or wife
and his hopes are a quarter and to get through the night.
For unlike the actor whose fans pay his way,
He has but his pain to act each day.
And unlike the writer whose time's spent away,
He has but his rhymes to boldly display.