When I look into the mirror I see: A boy not a man The son of a father I refuse to understand The “brother” of a brother like a wound I neglect The coward of a sister with the world I forget The prodigal son, but I am yet to return From a siege where I take refuge but want to watch burn Your lover, your companion, your champion, your friend Forever by your side but not in the end The fortunate son who dwells in the city With the poorest of the poor, still, I ask for your pity. And while theres a man who sleeps on, the ice-cold streets His godsend not in me, but in his cardboard: his sheets Yet I still see the same son.
Posted on: Fri, 15 Nov 2013 13:20:51 +0000
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