The street, alive with shadow-shapes,
grey formlets flicker, float, unfree,
between bright-speckled living men,
they oft appear to me.
Sometimes I see their greyness flash,
between the speeding cars,
but more, their faceless features flow
amongst the puddle-stars.
They move amorphous in a mass
of fearful formless flocks,
their arms awry and angled sharp,
they rise up from the rocks.
Unhappy souls, adrift, en route
to who knows where or how,
these remnants of a distant past,
who cares about them now?
They glide and flit amongst the reds
and blues and greens of life,
they scream and beat their breasts in pain,
who cares about their strife?
Existence has erased them
out of the book of joy,
their shadow severed loose from life,
their soul - God's broken toy.