Living Dead

Unwashed clothes, tearing at seams

Wrapped in a coat, that looks clean

May be it’s a recent gain

From a kindred heart or found in a bin

Searching while for scraps of food

A shaggy beard wrinkled face

Eyes that have, no light in them

He looks ahead watching the crowd

That passes around unaware

Of his existence amidst them

What goes in his mind

Does he reflect on his wretched life

Where past, present and future

All have blended

Into a self perpetuating hell

What emotions if ever, rise inside him

Anger defeat regrets or plain acceptance

At being a living dead