Destitute; alone, unaware
of the silence hiding ‘round the bend.
Great stories told of men and lore
begetting thoughts of triumph,
power, lust, desire, revenge.
I sway, steady footing naught
to be held on this dark and dangerous night.
Vile deeds circling heads stuffed
with images one would rather erase.
I chase a ready hand held high
above my deathbed, or so I’ve been told.
This dark grey span of concrete, broken
but for the cracks put there with purpose
sole to grab an un-wary traveler
by the ankle, felling them down, hard.
With this I step lightly, watching, alert.
For what else could a drunkard do?
Besides sit alone against the wall,
feet splayed out in front like broken timbre,
matted hair encircling their-my- face, trapping
emotions betrayed by my unwitting smile.
Toothless though I may be,
senile as others may say I am,
and homeless as has been decreed,
I stumble onwards, along the road,
bottle raised to my willing lips.
Destination reached, I collapse
on to mounds of cardboard, heaps of rags.
Another night survived,
another mile traveled in search of a drink,
another day lived in passing, and
I am safe. For now.
Just a Narrative poem written for creative writing. Critique, por favor!
It creates such a vivd picture. I would have liked to have seen more of this, but you jumped to the next image too fast.
