I have written over 4,000 poems and 1,000 songs and yet I am still searching for that perfect poem or song which eludes me.
In Cloistered Shadows They Struggle. <><><><><><><><><><><><> There are doors in back street alleys and in derelict structures, that sorrow passes through daily, where tragedy is ever prevailing. Hunger squats on a second floor walkup, tiny soul silently wailing on a filthy blood-stained mattress, as a smidgen of malnourished life, sucks a dribble of breast flow from her crack addicted mother, whom she may never grow to know. Drunks lie in the basement of the old Five and dime store, closed twenty years now, snoring through an alcoholic haze, in various poses of stupor, waiting for dawn to break. Then staggering out in a daze, so they can beg a dime from enough folks that pass them daily, to buy a fifth and later drift on liquid dreams of better lives, grateful when oblivion finally arrives. Joe beats his wife on the third level of the butcher shop, giving a hard fisted thanks in a quick short chop, for her burning his precious toast. He never could control his angst. she wipes the blood off, drops two more wheat down, and prays the toaster doesn't stick again, while softly cursing her choice of men. Mary breaks her last heart pill into quarters, stretching what should have been a one a day into four, sips some tea from a bag used six times before, and stares at the three triangles, between her and the floor, Meanwhile fluids fill her ankles as the failure of inadequate health plan slowly kills her. in her world where only the bill's sure. Susie goes dumpster diving behind the "All You Can Eat".. Chinese joint, she's an Iraqi war veteran, so horribly burned, and scarred from an I.E.D. that left flesh charred, no one will dare hire her, and who'd have the nerve to fire her. So she spends her nights sucking crab juice from mulched leftovers, and eating soggy eggrolls weary of the public's disregard, she lives life hard, in a large cardboard box, she calls her home, once a hero, now just a bum all alone. There are doors in back alleyways, and in derelict structures, that lead straight to the ruins of mankind, because most men towards kindness are disinclined so the poor and rejected remain tucked out of sight, way out of mind, as out front, strolling sidewalks the better off, are better off staying clear of all of those left without any luck who gaze with envy through dusty paned windows to the crowds passing and at the well-to-do massings in the brightly lit streets below, going to places they'll never know.
© 2009 Matthew Frederick Blowers III