Castaway

Run from his home, 

he couldn't forget

the night when his family had made him forfeit

all that he owned.

Now all alone

and cold to the bone

he stared at the wall,

no paper, no phone.

No message to write, no story to tell

his own family told him to burn in Hell.

The streets, used as landfills

and the dumpsters' overspill

mocked his aching, growling stomach.

He'd bend, his ankles, knees, still swollen

as around him passed, in twos and fours, men.

But not one. Not one would lend a helping hand.

Dirty looks shot through his heart

from the ones whom this mess did start.

Kicked out of his own house into the dirt

the waist of his pants no longer girt.

Not a single coin did they leave in his pocket

for every coin was written on their docket.

In their greed, they'd met him with fire

cut him, dashed him, and called him a liar.

Without them on his side, who did he have?

No one, no Man who wouldn't take a jab

at his heart, at his mind--

whatever they could find

they took. 

Took, took.

Everything, everything was taken away

by those who he'd called family.

He huddled close to the birds and the squirrels

until the time of night when they whirled

to return to their homes and their beds and their worlds.

He stepped through the warm wind into the blue light

the moon quivering in all its glory and might.

His pockets were light and his soul was heavy

but his mind had finally been set free

of the banshee

that sung the sweet words that richness was material.

Because of that voice, his life had been serial.

He knelt on the sidewalk,

his fingers gripping the charcoal chalk

as he etched the message in his heart.

His family had given him the start

that he needed to fire the coals

to melt the heaviness in his soul.

The message was simple, straight to the point.

with greed, money did his family annoint.

But he was not innocent, unblemished, without fault--

On his sight, his material wealth had raised an assault.

But now he could see: he was rich with the word

the message, the truth, which had come like a bird.

The chalk scribbled the message in one word, six, seven

and in those words he thought he did see heaven:

"Without money, we would all be rich,

it's the material that makes us all so sick," which

darkens the mind and causes the homeless

and leaves us all with a feeling so lone'less.

The one place he had never known was Home.

Shalom.

The glow in his face

rose up to the place

where richness abounds

in a town

with streets of gold

and richness that by Man was untold.

___

Author's Note: This was supposed to be a free verse piece, but after the verse that doesn't rhyme at all, the Lord filled me with rhymes. Anyone who's read my previous posts knows I can't rhyme and typically avoid poetry.

Castaway is copyright Krystal K. Brown. All rights reserved. Do not use, copy, or distribute any part of Castaway without the express permission of the author.