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Society's Ghosts


Dave Frazier

Shades of people past walk concrete paths,

Eyes sullen, downward.

No destination draws them forward; sheer will,

Moves them, onward.

Clothing hangs limp upon gaunt frames,

Like some oily rag.

Fashion sense gone, replaced by necessity,

To ward off weather's chill.

No breakfast of scones and coffee,

To greet their morning brightly.

Rather cold stares from the well-to-do,

As they toss their excess coins.

Attach-man, here I am. Look at me!

Do not suffer me so!

The pain of cold and no food I can take,

But its your acknowledgement I crave. 

Master Death please approach me, I'm willing;

I'm here but not real.

Just an apparition of a failed man's life,

Where hope no longer lives.

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