The shopkeepers don't want them sleeping rough in their front doors and the people don't want them living in their homes or back yards. They are a sight we do not want to see, a side of humanity we do not want to be. They have no place to go where they will fit in because of the trouble that they will bring. The damage inside their minds is complex, difficult to fix, so hard to reset.
The Homeless Factory
The homeless factory keeps turning them out,
A failing of society we do not wish to see.
Their minds downtrodden, broken, and confused,
Their world turned upside down from you and me.
They are the broken we fear to be, the abused,
The lost we avoid as we turn and walk away.
Our greatest fear — the mirror we refuse to face —
That one day, even we could fall from grace.
Where there is wealth, there is poverty’s cry,
Where there is laughter, heartache waits nearby.
Downtown humanity
turns the homeless eye,
As the ragged souls of night still fade away,
They lie on concrete beds beneath the sky,
Their dreams dissolve before the break of day.
The shame we are, we cross the street, we look away.
Wrapped tight in
plastic sheets against the storm,
Cardboard for walls where mercy lost its way,
Where restless bodies ache, unable to keep warm,
While we sleep safe in comfort’s soft array.
The shame we are, we cross the street, we look away.
Averted eyes slide
past their hollow stare,
Each gaze a plea we cannot bear to stay,
Their voices vanish in the frozen air,
Our hearts grow numb, our conscience led astray.
The shame we are, we cross the street, we look away.
The city hums,
indifferent, proud, unkind,
Its polished towers mock the souls astray,
We claim there’s progress, leave the lost behind,
And price compassion out of every day.
The shame we are, we cross the street, we look away.
The prisons fill with
those who sought scant respite,
They found no peace, no light to guide their way,
Condemned for seeking storefront shelter at night,
Freedom traded for paupers grave a cell of clay.
The shame we are, we cross the street, we look away.
They beg for coins to
buy a crust and drink,
A fleeting warmth to dull their minds’ dismay,
Or seek a fix to help them cease to think,
Their spirits break where hunger leads astray.
The shame we are, we cross the street, we look away.
Addiction hollows what
was once the soul,
It burns inside until the will gives way,
It leaves them broken, begging, out of control,
Their bodies frail, their minds in disarray.
The shame we are, we cross the street, we look away.
Some die alone,
frostbitten where they lie,
Their hearts give out before the break of day,
Their passing silent, none to hear them cry,
Their death is ours—yet still, we turn away.
The shame we are, we cross the street, we look away.
Someone’s child lost,
their futures gone astray,
Fell through the cracks where no kind hands could stay,
Their minds betrayed by those who led the way,
They called for help, but no one heard them pray.
The shame we are, we cross the street, we look away.
The law grows cold,
its heart a block of stone,
Those charged to care turn righteous minds to clay,
They strike the weak, to prove their power alone,
And call it social order—in justice gone astray.
The shame we are, we cross the street, we look away.
We call ourselves good
Christians, so we say,
Our Sabbath shines, we kneel, we sing, we pray,
Yet Christ lay stone cold at our feet one day,
An old man, lost, with nowhere left to stay.
The shame we are, we crossed the street, we looked away.
