Compassion Fatigue, poetry

The Street Prophet

The whole world has its eyes on the streets,
waiting for some saint or prophet
to rise from the ashes of their faith.
One learns in the streets
what it is to be human.
To follow impulsive patterns
glorified by loss of faith.
Now can you see them?
Brutally carousing?
All are looking for an escape of who they are.
Which one is your savior?

I can’t belong to those cumulative numbers,
nor those dysfunctional over privileged white bread cheese cakes,
insidious in their fragmentary condition.
I would lose my ability to move beyond
that over-reliance of numb acceptance.

Yea, I’ve sat among them before,
delinquent
and still can.
If I was to speak,
who would listen?
Certainly not her.

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