Blaring horns

of the angry cars that have woken up before the sun

act as an alarm, reminding him that his nightmares and reality

are no different at all.



Hurried footsteps,

quick, judging glances; a few suggesting pity,

but most accompanied by a disgusted frown of the brow

as if they are the kings


and he, the peasant.


His stomach,

a relentless and vicious lion, continually roaring while it scours the floors

of the concrete jungle,

looking for anything left behind by the

heartless animals passing by.


Hope,

depleting by the day like the money in his pocket,

creating an everlasting expression of exhaustion

on his rugged face.


Smells of the littered streets,

the pureness of the icy air,

his torn-up clothes that protect him through the dark, endless night,

combine into one, overwhelming stench that surrounds him.


Why does he fight through the meaningless days

to live when he has reached the point where life

is his greatest luxury?

Where the very idea of death

does not send shivers down the spine,

but rather, uplifts the mind?


No family to alleviate the loneliness,

no shelter to protect from the harsh cold,

no money, no chance at redemption.


But he lives on.