Private Property

This is the city
Of angels and broken wings.
Lost souls and too many things.
There is no world
With windows wide enough
For what they see.
There is no future good enough
For what they can be. 
A crumpled piece on the streets
This is private property
Do not trespass
This niche in between
Worlds of what is and what can be.
A heap of a life
Folded underneath.
Every day they are trying
To beat the odds.
Looking for shelter
Underneath the tree of gods.
 Lost souls holding on
To what is already gone
Finding a place
They can call home
A space amidst
The cracks
They can't walk back.
Finding comfort
In what they are afraid of
They go and live there.

© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2020.
All names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this blog are fictitious. No identification with actual persons, places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. © All rights reserved.