perplexed, i reflect on the song of the rejects.
watching as they scramble to manage letters into words.
since when was speaking such a crime?
a murmur of the soul left trapped within a creaky wooden box
as the key is flung into a relentless crowd.
these ones adorn a tattered shroud.
left to haunt the city as ghosts,
invisible to those who chose not to see.
it's a clever tool used to leave the forgotten forgot.
while on the first floor,
merry men sit and stuff their faces to oblige their bellies.
they consume with a gaze that stirs a craze from hearts of desire.
i hesitate to inquire.
but the image is to daunting to brush away.
a hope crushed struggles to live another day.
and so they remain.
in the same gutters and alleys in which they came.
"spare change to clear your conscious?"
photographer: aaron frey