"The Wretched Man" Written By Milena Grubor

A wretched man might live a thousand lives,

Yet none would hear him but his ceaseless cries.

Beneath the sun he writhes and slowly turns,

A pyre of vultures round his spirit burns.

He drowns his days in rivers harsh and sour,

A slave in chains to every poisoned hour.

The bottle clings like shackles to his hand,

And stains his breath with rot no prayers command.

His gaze is foul, a creeping, grasping blight,

That withers warmth and drives away the light.

No soul draws near but feels a crawling dread,

As if cold fingers traced the words unsaid.

His flesh decays in strips of ashen thread,

A walking ruin numbered with the dead.

Each step he takes exudes a charnel reek,

Corruption blooming gray upon his cheek.

No love has crowned him, none has called him kind;

He stalks alone, abandoned by mankind.

No grave will house him, though he longs to lie,

He roams unloved beneath a vacant sky.

A wretched man through endless hours is led,

By thirst and shame forever captive, fed.

Alive in curse, in solitude misread,

Yet moving still, a heart already dead.

Reviews

[Michael Sun Bear]

Ah…Milena. Great photo, I could swear I hung out with that guy, minus the beer bottle, in detox. As usual, you show a great command of language, painting vividly with words. For the first time you really alienated me with your writing. As an addict myself, I have fortunately avoided ever living on the streets, but I have met and befriended many who have. We all need compassion, which your poem completely lacks, painting the addict in the ugliest, most hateful way possible.

[emmajoygreen]

Such a post written with all the right words and meter to match: explicit and more. But where's even a teeny tiny touch of empathy or self-questioning? As ever, you lay our words in the right order, use fine wording.. but.. sometimes emotion is missing, dear friend.