The Drifter
By John Trent
Whither the wind blows, there falls the seed
Within a forest of concrete he drifts the day
Invisible to most, undesirable to many
Searching his existence while we walk away
Our town today, maybe your town tomorrow
Clothes torn and soiled, no shoes on his feet
“May I have some change” or “got a smoke”
He begs for your mercy, but he'll always retreat
Falling, wandering, not knowing where to go
A soul lost and lonely as his days turn to years
With cardboard for shelter and scraps for his meal
He lays on the concrete with eyes filled with tears
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