Across the Track

Angels cry and hearts are sold
so many stories go untold
on streets where beauty often roams
‘mongst ragged souls in search of homes.
‘Tis there the story does unfold
of misery and hearts of gold.
Of men and women without hope;
dangling lives on old, frayed rope.
While up across the tracks I see
shackled souls who’re never free
but spend their lives in constant fear
of reality they see so near.
And through pretty lace curtains there
are Gaia’s children all stripped bare.

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About a foolhardy florilegium

Nullius addictus iurare in verba magistri, quo me cumque rapit tempestas, deferor hospes.
This entry was posted in Life, Mental Health, nature, Spirit. Bookmark the permalink.

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