Woven Dreams

In my eyes
See generations
Hair displays a part of me
Hands reveal the work I've done
Feet the path I've traveled on
But listen to my words and you'll hear
The people I've met through the years
Hopes, dreams of what yet to be
Despair on bended knee
Head bowed in reconciling
Urn of life unclaimed on a shelf
Unmarked graves of the fallen
Longing arms of a child for love
Tears of the homeless
Nomads of the world
Street Poetry unparalleled
Virgin Prose spoken, but few will ever hear
For the street requires a special ear
A beat reporter whose crossed the line
Touched the dark and danced in day
Seen the troubles
Felt the bitter cold
Brethren of the street, the peddler already knows
The dance of angels on desperate wings
Sings the song of solace and of special dreams
Where hearts cling to hope
An illusion of a home:  a mansion made of stone
Flight of angels
Work in unison
Rescue spirits of lonely ones
Temper the madness
A catalyst never dies
Spirit driven soul survives
Despite the winds and the torrid skies
To fain not in spite of what one sees
To capture the moment
Not to plea
The hour beckons the night cast her shade
Still the writer plugs away
Voice that resonates deep within
Spell that speaks tis not a sin
Kindred spirits walk the course
Touch time on a divided line
Where the metronome pauses for the memory
Of those gone before while the street beat reporter
Records the prose!