His knees know the feel of the hot earth.
What choices do they have?
Were they not designed
To have communion with the earth?
To suffer her temperament
When the seasons change;
Inflicting her with heat,
Insulting her with water,
Or punishing her with frost...
Credit: Getty images
He's for long now used to her caprices;
For she's but a wounded wounder..
Had she the capacity to set his soul
On the fires of peace, she would.
But she can't, for she's just a reflector
Of her skyward counterparts...
He has long accepted this.
He no longer wastes his breath cursing
For he knows the futility of such exertions.
What purpose do I serve?
What purpose does this serve, he asks himself?
That the rich may revel that they are blessed?
Or that the poor may be grateful
That they didn't turn out as worse.
And so he quests after the answers
But they are elusive.
They meander like old crooked paths.
They slip from grasp
Like soggy fishes, fresh from water.
They flee from his behest
Like irresponsible fathers..
Long accustomed to such unwholesome dependence
On others like him, who inhabit better pages
Of this delirious book of life,
He does naught but live his life in waits;
In cold, infuriating waits
For his patience means his survival.
Perhaps one out of a hundred,
Or even a thousand,
Might look upon his misery,
And realize, that there is none so recrudescent
Anywhere...
Perhaps...
One out of that thousand
Might offer small imbursements
That are really nothing
But seem to always come
At that purblind moment
When the straws have plagued
His burnt back,
And only the transience of
A soul is all that is needed
To catapult his derangement
Into the sour soups
Of a bleeding death...
After all, he tells himself,
Would anyone miss me?
Would they notice
That man in the corner
Missing from the stock?
What if they did..
Would they even care...
Even now...
He's back in the cycle
Of questions and answers..
And even time chooses
To remain taciturn,
So the only voices he hears
Are echoes of his own morbid thoughts..
Hello Steemians. I wrote this poem to take us through the demented psyche of a roadside beggar. True, there are so many myths about them, ranging from how they could be agents of an unknown, malicious, mystical society, to how they steal destinies through the alms they receive..
BUT
I have chosen to believe none of that crap. I have seen poverty and I know what it takes for a human being to beg. Trust me, it is the very last thing ANYONE would do. Now I know you're not a charity organisation but I also know you are human, and you have the capacity to feel. Envision their sorrow, their torment... Think for one second why anyone would CHOOSE that kind of life.. Become them for just one minute.. Imagine having to wait for hours, even days for enough money to get yourself even a single meal because you're disabled or some other incredible misfortune has befallen you.. We all know this is not easy for anyone to take.
RISE UP Steemians!! You think the little you have to offer makes no difference? Well think again. Your little, amongst a great many things, saves humanity, preserves it, ensures that its meaning is not forever lost to cruelty and malice and selfishness..
Help someone today. You'll be helping your world...