Tin can and crooked cane
held by the crooked hand
of a crooked man.
He slept on a bed with box
opened flat to serve as his mattress.
His worn out shirt and slacks
fades with his age.
The flies are feasting on his toes.
His sun burnt skin is his pride
for the effort of his living.
The calluses on his bare feet made him strong
as he strides his way on the
scorching streets in the metro.
Coins were tossed on the ground;
he disregards the back ache to pick 'em up.
A joy in his heart,
a sweat on his forehead,
tremors on his hands.
A jaunt to the bakeshop
to have some bread.
A seat in the corner of a street
to satisfy his soul with his sweet treat
and a peace of mind.
held by the crooked hand
of a crooked man.
He slept on a bed with box
opened flat to serve as his mattress.
His worn out shirt and slacks
fades with his age.
The flies are feasting on his toes.
His sun burnt skin is his pride
for the effort of his living.
The calluses on his bare feet made him strong
as he strides his way on the
scorching streets in the metro.
Coins were tossed on the ground;
he disregards the back ache to pick 'em up.
A joy in his heart,
a sweat on his forehead,
tremors on his hands.
A jaunt to the bakeshop
to have some bread.
A seat in the corner of a street
to satisfy his soul with his sweet treat
and a peace of mind.
photosource: http://th06.deviantart.net/fs39/300W/f/2008/360/f/3/beggar_by_ef5.jpg
1 comment:
I see you're into poems as of this moment^_^nice!
I was never good with poems.
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