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“The Broken Army”

Drawn to the window

By violent noises from below

Looking down I spy 4 bloodied men

They’re obviously up to no good

 

Strangers to me are all of them

Not a single one have I seen before

All are dangerous in their appearance

I’m thankful to be behind a locked door

 

These men, these men, these broken men

How did their lives end up like this?

These men, these men, these hurting men

What’s the story behind all their pain?

 

I assume that they must have done dastardly deeds

And in so doing caused their lives to become unhinged

And I assume that they must have all burned many, many bridges

Which is how their lives went from being simply unhinged to completely ruined

 

I assume that they must have made many bad decisions

And in so doing caused great torrents of tears to be shed

And I assume that the tortured ones that rained down those tears

Have long ago written off these difficult men as dead

 

Outcasts of society is what these lost souls are

And so pushed to the margins of civility they’ve been

And I assume that none have achieved any of their dreams

As they’ve been too busy chasing after their sins

 

And I assume that there’s a lack of direction in most of their efforts

And so it’s on the streets that they’ll have to stay forevermore

And with their convoluted ambitions, and their disposition to indecision

Their motivations are likely determined by the direction of the wind

 

And I assume that most of their causes are quite likely ignoble

Meaning that with the status quo they don’t quite fit in

And with their unsavoury addictions and their thieving predilections

I assume that there’s no room at the inn for these men

 

A caravan of gypsies, living out in the open

The sky above serves as their roof

And with stability nonexistent, they’re always in search of shelter

And likely spend most of their energy just trying to survive

 

Hidden in dark corners, engaged in bad business

Cloaked in their dirty, dirty rags

This ragtag posse appears fixated on anarchy

And likely marches to an obtuse flag of their own making

 

Beaten by the system, momentum in remission

Willpower all but gone

A roving pack of feral cats

It’s on the street where they make their home

 

A gaggle of hungry beasts hunting for some meat

It’s their canine instincts that dictate their moves

And with their hopes for salvation, likely all but evaporated

I assume that they’re even more dangerous than they already seem

 

And though a contingent of missionaries, this collective could well be

If only society would give them a chance

For much wisdom they possess, which they’d likely divulge

If only society would give them a chance

 

But a chance they don’t get, because trustworthy they’re not

Or so believe the ignorant ones that are in charge

And so this street sleeping brigade, is all but forced to remain

Divided from the majority

 

And by drawing in an ear, it’s easy to hear

Why society will just not give them a break

For they speak with slurred tongues, so their wise words are ignored

Despite the fact that most would benefit from listening

 

And it’s through mumbled voices that these men confess their terrible choices

And that’s why not a single sober ear bothers to tune in

For their words are so garbled so it’s unlikely that there’s any worth in them

Or so believe the deafened majority

 

And so lost and abandoned, are these poor discarded men

But the more enlightened would like to know why

Have their prospects always been, this incredibly grim?

Or were their lives once more uplifting?

 

And was there ever love?

And was there ever desire?

And were there ever any commitments?

And were any offspring ever sired?

 

Memories of moments

Owned by the past

Pay them no mind

For they no longer exist

 

Better instead

To focus attention

On words and actions

Moored in the present

 

Translated this means

Continue with the speculation

About the motivations and desires

Of this ramshackle posse

 

A warbled company

A loose crew of lost souls

Friendship does not bind them

Theirs is a fellowship based on survival

 

United through violence

Affection shown with fists

As knuckles caress cheeks

Lost are many teeth

 

And from these terrible interactions

Come sounds oh so severe

But despite the intensity of the aural mayhem

No-one bothers to intervene

 

Ignore it, just ignore it

That’s what they do

Those neglectful eavesdropers

Of the brutal battle noises that they hear

 

But ignore it, just ignore it

I just cannot

For with sounds that severe

I feel the need to interact

 

So I take out my peepers

And then parachute them down

Onto the battlefield

And I’m shocked at what I find

 

Puddles full of blood and guts

Litter the ground

And from those warriors’ open wounds

Body fluids continue to fountain out

 

And it’s a battle ever so useless

For in the end none will win

For even the one that is left standing

Will still be a causality

 

And as I watch these street brawlers

Inflicting more harm to their brethren than good

I’m left to wonder, of all the useless carnage

When oh when will it end?

error: Copyright 2020 Christopher Little. All rights reserved.