The Writers Voice
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God Bless You My Son
Finding reflective surfaces
Amongst and beneath the grime
Of this monstrous concrete cavern,
The voice bestowed a muffled echo
Equal to that of the traffic above.
Darkness an early unwelcome companion
Concentrates between concrete monoliths,
Playing out fitful nightmares elsewhere.
Accompanied by varied stench
A constant chilling wind
And a domineering burden of loneliness.
The black concrete sky
A shield from a human tide.
City lights beckon,
Creeping further away.
Feeling cold and old,
Missing lost loved ones,
I rest in this filth and quietly sob.
Then I hear the voice.
God Bless You My Son.
Through frosted glass eyes
I see a priest looking down at me.
Hes young, smells of aftershave
And offers a clean, manicured hand.
I greedily accept
In a voice too deep for his build
Son, you are not lost.
Only one footstep has strayed from the path.
Stand by me
Ask not why of me
And I will send you to true fruition.
I am with you my son,
You are never alone.
I stood in the darkness and filth
And all I could see was light.
Alone, I walked proud, smiling,
Knowing all would turn out all right.
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