Monday, 18 April 2016

The Warmth Of A Dream.

          The British winter has passed, but our climate still makes this country a vicious, brutal and death dealing place to sleep rough. Across the country in towns and cities, vulnerable people are having to spend their nights finding a doorway, a lane, a hole in the wall, or wherever, to bed down for the night. The capitalist system can produce 5 star hotels and luxury housing for some, but shit housing for the majority, and in many case no home at all. Our cities and towns are awash with empty premises, all locked up, yet we still have people dying on our streets, and the powers that be call this democracy. There is no way that we should accept, in one of the wealthiest countries in the world, that anybody should have to sleep rough, this is surely an indictment against a system that is greed driven and built on exploitation and inequality. While some dine and sleep in unbelievable opulence, others seek shelter from the elements in tattered and worn clothes curled up in a doorway. This is the hallmark of a failed system that must be destroyed.

The Warmth Of A Dream.

He lay in a dark doorway, dreamed of home,
night frost locked his joints
morning rain chilled the marrow of his bone.
In the dream there was a sister, 
a pram in a garden, a crowd of youngsters
who called him "mister", a time of little pain.
Are these youngsters the same young men, who
now laugh at him, throw beer cans,
piss on him as he lies drunk in some dark lane?
When was that first step down this slippery slope,
when was that first step to no forgiveness.
No will to rise to beg for food,
numbness kills the pain.
The dream brings a warmth that feels good,
dark fog shades out consciousness,
an ambulance carries off a body washed in rain. 
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