The Square


The Square

The Square









I met a man today, he shared with me

his woes, of how he tried his best to live

among the sadness in the square.


To be so alone, sitting in a turmoil

of secret thoughts, negative ones at best

it breaks ones heart and kills any joy.


At night he wandered with pen and pad

trying  to capture words from the air,

that a passersby would leave among the

squalor laying there.


Feeling sorry for their tears as nights

of calm and bliss are now long gone,

in the shadows on the concrete lay

abundant souls in despair, who shared

a word or two of their past lives.


And how they once were

someone of repute but now

were struggling to survive

among the cats and rats who

chased each other in the square.


He wrote and wrote until his

fingertips were worn bare, and

skin peeled from the tips as a

reminder of the many souls that

share a tale or two from whence

they came, and of family’s who once

cared, but now shunned for what

happened and put them

all out there.


In fear they tread with the only

motivation they have, an option

in their world is to grasp for it,

the offer of life worth living, dangles

before them with each step they

take while sinking into the wither

world so far away.


He cried out loud oh gods

where are you now to help them

from their woes and losses that

put them there, among the vermin

and garbage laying strewed about

this lifeless square.


Cardboard huts abundant lay

among the desperate souls

at night, who tried to sleep

without being killed or

beaten in the square.


Their drug was simple kindness

trying to survive from thieves and

murderers who wanted all their wares.


The night was desperate as the poet

penned in wonder of these lost

survivors lingering under the

 moonlit night.


Like shadows on a wall they passed

into the lifeless night as lost

wandering spirits, who once loved

life but now were outcasts from

their families who once loved

them and cared.


Now they sink into the depths

of despair and squint an eye

to the uselessness and shame

 of it all.


© Copyright Vincent Moore 2012. All Rights Reserved



The Square — 3 Comments

  1. I have often wondered how frightening it would be at night for the homeless.
    Your beautiful poetry gives light to what I have always feared it to be for them.
    Excellent work as always, Vincent.

    • Yes to live in the streets is filled with horror and surprise, I’ve spoken to a few of them and its a very sad place to be indeed.

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