A siren on a paper cup in swollen hands is offered up,
to shadows fleeting right and left that quickly pass the huddled cleft.

Now woken cold and cardboard wet the wretched refuse dawn begets,
shudder doglike, crouched and bent their yearning breath for freedom spent.

Between the pulse of city beats lay hopes deprived and incomplete,
Oedema swells their laboured flesh to blueing hues of emptiness.

While hurry home those who belong who pass and pass then soon are gone,
yet never see the vacant space where once there beamed a human face.

© Wolfgar 2020

2 thoughts on “Sirens

  1. Not much more to be said than that, about those homeless. And yeah, you can find another angle on that, as if, your heart no longer dwells in any other, any other love, nor even, your own life.

    Nice touch with Nymen.

    ……..what the world, needs now, is ……….

    too many fascists david. there are too many fascists, won’t let love live.

    stay good.


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