The Degenerate


Clear golden streets aligned with magnificent gems,
aromas of roses and jasmines, bouquets adorned with crystal stems.

In magnificent houses souls dwell in perfect love,
innocence residing in unbroken peacefulness, harmless as doves.

The Glory of God keeps all darkness out of sight,
spotlighting a heavenly city and embracing it with eternal light.

Feasts sumptuously prepared decorate immaculate silver tables,
a sight so delicious it can only be described in the greatest of fables.

Waking from the dream the degenerate rubs his tired eyes;
arising disheveled, he quickly clears his head of those night lies.

His ragged clothes reek strongly of the previous day's sweat;
a new wardrobe he needs, but he knows he will never get.

The heartless pavement is unwavering and hard,
but this is his bed, and the day will deal him yet another painful card.

Wiping away the tears the man of sorrow accepts he will never be free,
stepping backwards into misery, he grabs a cardboard sign reading,

"Please help me."

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