Thursday, February 6, 2014

The Street Poet.

The Street Poet.

He sat on the curb
with a sign around
his neck that read:
"Will Write for Food."
Mumbling bitter curses
at well-intended by-
passers who would
occasionally toss
coins at him.

No one can recall
for sure how long
the Old Man had
been sitting there..
sign around neck..
cursing. Some say
months, others years.

My first impression
(which proved to be
wrong.) was that he
was stark raving mad.
Driven insane by some
long ago war, or loss
he couldn't come to
terms with.

In Reality he was
probably the sanest
of all however.
A Man of Many
Truths who sough
in the World an
Audience. Only
to be disappointed
by it's lack of caring.

The Day he died,
investigators found
over 5,000 works
of poetry he had
written and hoarded
up in several boxes
where he slept down
by the River...and it was
agreed by everyone
that he was a Man of
Talent far exceeding
many in this modern

His works were far
reaching, and diverse
in nature. Poems of
Love, War, Heaven,
Hell, Devils and Angels.
Poverty and Affliction.
Works rivaling The
Dead and Great who's
words still live on
to this Day.

I find it Ironic that
the Man died penniless,
considering his estate is now
worth several million,
and countless men
and women have come
out of the wood works
claiming to be family
in order to cash in on
his Greatness.

It seems the Street
Poet has finally found
his Audience....

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