Cries Of The Street (POEM)

Their faces covered in shame and helplessness,
Bodies attired in dirt and hopelessness,
Call for attention than we recognize,
Cry out for our intervention than we will ever admit to.
They are like a different specie of life, aliens left to die out on the city streets,

We look yet not long enough to see their plight as it is, deep.
We hear them groan, we see them beg, pleading that we contribute to their next meal,yet coldly we ignore them,
We hear them moan at the painful thrust of the night's cold sword, but it seems their groans aren't loud enough to startle our sleeping empathy awake.

Their cracked skin and sore feet, aim to forecast their worn out spirits,
Their dry,cut lips and chilli smeared eyes spell the state of their souls, bruised,
But unfortunately for them, to all this we are as newly born babies, oblivious,
We are as blind and deaf to them as lying corpse in a morgue.
To cries of the street, we are stone dead.                                                                               Shamelessly Dead.