every night is the same, no matter what dark - damp location
he rests his head.
Cold concrete is his pillow and newspaper, his blanket.
Thoughts of death will run through his mind most night's,
but he is convinced - things will get better.
But things get worse.
Alleys turn to park benches,
and park benches turn to dumpsters.
"No man should live this way," he says to himself.
This man will walk down the street
loose change clattering in his pockets.
Everyone looks past him, and when their gaze -
meets his, they wonder - what he is.
This man, knows they are the same,
they are all empty, inside and out.
They are no better.
This city is alive at night,
when the man feels like dying.
While the rats feasts upon the living
and downgrade society, drinking the blood -
the man just wants alcohol to warm his blood.
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