A winter gloom is drawing in,

As a frosting menace bites in the air.

The amber embers of the street lights strain against the

Engulfing darkness,

Lampooning the moon’s whitening glow.

The shifting silhouettes of tomcats skulk,

Between the rubbish bins on Mankind’s mansions.

Beneath one frost-bitten streetlight is a man.

A faceless man,

He has no name or number or purpose or friend,

Only the uniform of a bundle of rags;

The uniformity of poverty.

This man he sits and he stands and kneels in reverence

To his master, standing over his shoulder.

He is pushed into the gutter;

His handful of money snatched from his hand.

While the glistening blue waters of society run across him, uphill.

This man has no face or name or number or purpose or friend,

And yet he still has a life.

His life of demonisation and filth in his gutter.

He is a good for nothing, a scrounger, an underclass.

He is nothing more than a soulless shadow,

In a domineering amber glare.

Behind his living, shivering corpse

The footsteps of his fellow man lie trodden.

Pure footsteps, unperturbed footsteps,

Undisturbed footsteps, unconcerned footsteps,

Empty footsteps.

And still the tomcats skulk in the shadows,

Running between the rubbish bins of Mankind’s mansions.

And Mankind goes on, eating its dinners.

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