Homeless

Lying on the patch of grass
he calls his home, with eyes tight shut
and all alone …
he’s in another world.
Mindful not, of how he looks,
with no T.V. and no books,
drifting in and out of space,
“Time’s” left its mark upon his face …
he’s homeless.

Tattered clothing,
dirty and worn, hangs from the tree
from dusk till dawn.
Not a soul to kiss goodnight,
just a wish to end his plight.
Does anybody care?

When sunrise comes
he’s up again, to walk the streets
and beg from men, who look at him
with questioning eyes,
wondering where, at night, he lies.
Days and months and years go by,
nothing changes …
there’s just a sigh,
of pity, for the poor old man,
who seems to do the best he can,
to exist …
he’s homeless.

No fun, no friends,
no food to eat, just scraps from bins
left in the street.
How could he pay for a piece of meat?
He’s left to suffer through cold and heat …
he’s homeless.
Can anybody see?

Does anybody know the emptiness he feels,
when there’s nowhere else to go?
Just a blanket for a bed
and a stone to rest his head.
He’ll be there again tomorrow,
wrapped in misery and sorrow,
cause ..
he’s homeless.