Of Circumstance

A taste to live on
every tongue, to come
with or without right-
A vagabond, a wanderer
buckled beneath an alley light,
to sleep, forgotten, into this night-
What circumstance turned
away, with a path blocked
by need or want, for who knows
the difference?
His spirit cries when conscious
yet disallowed such feeling of conscience-
Denied by love
time and again, impatient of virtue
with visions of better
to prick his mind; hand out-stretched
and slapped away, for a drifter’s dream
is a worthless thing.


Echoes on the Stairs Copyright © 2015 by Felicity Johns. All Rights Reserved.


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