Love replaced by wailings of the lonely dead
Trying to survive in a pretend plastic world,
no place to hide.
How indeed does one get by
when every effort spent must provide,
what sometimes isn't enough
for even a loaf of bread?
Alas, just to have a few dollars
for a taste of wine to forget
the shock of losing all one has. . .
the unattainable, unsatisfying job
that only served to paralyze and
crippled one's need to roam,
oh, so little, the precious time,
wasted, in endless begging for a dime.
chased by debtors to the streets,
with no place better than
a cardboard box to call a home.
Can it be true, dignity was stolen too?
What a way to spend a life.
Fear dwells where love belongs.
Shamelessly, competed with
and parted from labor's fruit,
stolen away the last chance
to harvest all that one is due.
Alone and embittered
by the struggle to hang on,
be it right or wrong,
to these belong all things
that tarnish, rust and fade away,
as does this rhyme,
with the setting of the sun.
No life at all, it is ironically,
a timed existence. . . without time.
No time to live, no time to share,
no time to really enjoy the beingness of being,
to dare to be in love's embracing flow,
a place of existence where none go hungry,
nor lack the comfort of a safe, warm, welcomed bed.
this place seemingly a stranger to the world,
lying dormant, as if dead,
well concealed within the heart of man,
like a rare perfect pearl trapped in the body
of an oyster, a voice calling from within,
forever begging to be shed.
By Shirl A. Steward
Written and copyright August 2, 1990
Image Credits: Lilies by friend, Toni Donelow Stewart