Clinging to survival mode on the streets of life.
Those nights alone in the wasteland; a cold companion in neon lights,
Hugging despair in handfuls of Indigo shadows.
Floodwaters of anguish; rusted iron grills consuming fortunes’ fires,
Wading weary limbs, on repeat, clinging to quicksand in quagmires,
With nowhere to go but the homeless margins of population’s numbers.
Leaning on windows of missed opportunity; remorse’s blown glass,
Sleeping behind dumpsters by night, walking the streets by day, sores on her feet, no strength or might,
Once a fashionista, now only the clothes on her back,
Once owner of property; now, not a penny for a dry morsel to eat.
Destitution is an impoverished bedfellow but a wise counsellor,
Tutoring the student of the will; Yet, seeking no followers or fame,
Instructing on the difference between pricey and priceless.
Indeed, weeping may endure for more than one night; in fact,
Two endless weeks, as one long dark night in the looking glass.
Out of affliction’s ashes; compassion’s Phoenix soars, carrying a priceless lesson in her wings.
Survival Mode – A Haiku
Embraces weary arms folding
In night’s cold desert
Dear friend, as you may have surmised, this poem is wholly autobiographical.
Written for Sadje’s What do you see #72