The Road off Market Square

Home is ground –
More fortuned lives
Pass around.

Pink blossom
Blows in dirty places,
By filthy faces.
Just pray,
Hope the long day
Would pass.

Fingers moan
Clutching coat tighter,
Expected brighter.
Does not pity;
Men must drink.

Morning’s cold dew
Seeps through.
Naked trees
Leave just sharp breeze
For a roof.

Frozen stone
Does not bedroom make
Kept awake.
Hopeless eyes
Await delayed demise
Of winter stars.

No way to be –
Still fortuned lives
Won’t see.

Originally published in The Looking Glass Anthology: Volume 3

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