PRISONER OF TIME 2 © 2008

Words are the beggars of the soul,

Always begging for a worthy record,

Wandering the streets of thought, without calm,

Seeking shelter, even if it's in a poorly viewed text.

Even with misery serving as their bed,

They persist, stubborn, in existence,

In the trash, they find the comfort life demands,

Tattered sheets covering the shame of persistence.

They know that, even in poverty,

There is a value that transcends the material,

For in their essence, they carry the purity

Of a truth that, though suffering, is real.

And so, the words, homeless beggars,

Persist in their journey, without ceasing,

Seeking a space, even if discreet,

Where they can, at last, rest and shine.

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