a poem inspired by a man I see sitting outside the metro every morning.
A man sits
on cold concrete.
His face is weary, weather-worn,
his jacket frayed and stained and torn,
but who cares?
The man blends
with stony ground.
They can't perceive who hurry past,
with lives of speed, hurried and fast.
So who sees?
The people rush
in hurried haste.
They pass the rock with mournful eyes
and journey on as passer-bys,
but who speaks?
And death descends
on this silent street.
Death in their silence, gives no word,
to neighbor's cry for love, unheard.
So who loves?
The King sits
within the man.
And as the sprinters rush and frown and fret,
it is their King that they neglect.
The King who loves.
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