Parliament street

This narrow path is simply riddled with shit;
and blighted near blind, save for one solitary light,
That catches  in-styme: a dark -suckling-  thing  from  the shadows
Where muttered carols from bedlamites are nearly heard.
Here reside those near lost:the interred and the forlain;
Whose pained, lead filled step and gaunt fixed features, travail.
But growing from their unfixed, unfocused -near dead- gaze,
And showing in the subtle sounds of their breath whispers;
Are questions: for they all believe that they were deceived!
They stagger and blunder, as they blindly walk onward,
While considering this path:  an old, so  cold, vicious slit.

 But blazing upon this scarred tarred near sacred wall
Are echoes:-  not mere chalk lines but prayers eternally placed
In sketched statements, that smart this bitter dark end clip.
Its parliament Street: The narrowest path on the globe!
An eternal home for internal dreams or atreet hope!
Where vizyed people leave their mark for others to ponder!
Where painted thoughts resonate and are never to decay;
Where politics is actually made real and is given back!  
you’re  never alone!  The old bold never lost words scream.
They uplift this  tatty soul, who thus rises to the call.

©  adh 2014