Strangers

The kindness of strangers,

Plays to the rocking thoughts,

Of this paper-thin mind

With not a lot of time left,

And very little left of importance,

She finds nothing wrong with,

Taking sips of my drinks

Without asking

Or stealing freshly lit cigarettes

No one feels like her

Not the same exact way she does

And the masses,

Should be thankful for that

Reflect into her weary soul,

And spit prayers into the foolish winds

For to end like this,

Is to end alone

Sorrow-filled and empty

And an ending like that,

Is simply a waste

A waste of all her prettiness and promise,

Which was once held so high,

But now resorts to scraping,

It’s own belly across,

This barren and burned world

The same world where strangers,

Don’t save the day

And very rarely,

Can be seen,

Outside of the shadows

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

 

 

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