The Existence Of The Others
The walking man looks like a bag of bones.
He wanders along alone without a home.
He never knows where his next meal is.
Don’t put your blame on him for this.
Circumstances were beyond his control.
What brought them on, he didn’t know?
He once was a lot like you are now.
Earning a living by the sweat of his brow.
Now, he doesn’t live, he just exists.
He is beyond being mad and having fits.
His focus is strictly on what’s to come.
Where is his next meal coming from.
True, the poor will always be with us.
Society rejecting them can make you cuss.
There’s little help. They have stopped trying.
There is no motivation. I’m not lying.
It is an existence hard to comprehend.
For them, they have reached the very end.
You could say they are waiting for God.
That’s all that is left. This is not odd.
What else to do if they were you?
There must be something we can do?
The answer is a curse to society.
Unsolvable, probably do to our piety.
At the least, we can all pray for them.
Treat them like they were our kin.
They are already down and out.
In a zombie land, without a doubt.
An hour, a day, a year to them,
is just the passing of a blur within.
The high points being a decent meal.
Little is said about how they feel.
Except for the grace of God, go you.
Can you see what they are going through?
—————————R. W. Johnson—–(2017)