Vagabond

A somewhat religious poem about judging others.

Vagabond sitting on concrete,
Minion of ambiguity.
Watching the people pass,
Some dropping their coins,
Clanging into cup-shaped tin.
Most run past, never seeing,
Like invisible blinders block their sight.
A few stopped, too far to really see,
But stopped all the same and stared.
Using their glares like a flog.
Presumptuous people making
Asinine thoughts, thinking the vagabond,
 Smelling of a concoction of mildew and alcohol,
Ain’t nobody but a bum,
Wanting to waste their good cash.
Moon rise comes,
Vagabond is gone.
Up in heaven,
An angel reports
To the King of Kings.

Author's Note

Honest opinions welcomed.