by MyNAh_27
Like a pack of howling wolves in need of prey,
A wounded urban psyche strains its gnarled voice,
Motherless, fatherless, ice cold pavement waif,
Wee small hours plight
The rocks of his facade dispatched in ghost trains
for those ghoulish oil float gutters to imbibe,
Back street burden stray, schooled in fringe art fables,
Phantom kite chaser
Eerie street lights peer into an aimless soul,
Clouds of pea soup fog engulf his raw foot slink,
Firefly knotted angst or bilious grumble,
Trash can tummy fare
But still he ambles on, inner plagues in charge
as loafers from the underworld gawk and gape,
Pithy, a phased out coin for snow cap straggler,
dead of night orphan
Second place medal winner on July 21st 2020 in Poetry Soup contest