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9/4/2018 11:13:01 AM mark palmer Posts: 8	Quietly with cap to hand he begs on the street With Cross legs he waits with a sigh, so Cold in the pouring rain, with his fingers and toes Going numb he shivers on the floor, gingerly He stands up, stamps and blows the hands. In homeless days with fate the judge, his belt hangs, A gaunt face tired by health, groaning, While hunger pangs pass by the hour, His stomach bends to aching pains and these Sharp steely knives climb inside. Cold floors and sores, the penance of life So frail and unwell with no bed to rest, with Cold drafts a dark stranger and taker of life, As well-wishers pause, strangers to the eye For Hope is the humble friend tonight. On the side street with no money to tell He lives and survives on pence per week, The social orphan with nowhere to go, As money’s is no cure, only a divide And never is enough they all reply.
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9/5/2018 12:28:17 PM mark palmer Posts: 8	This is my best poem to date and I have tried to give a picture of poverty in the street. Not sure how the reader will see it?
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