Down and Out in the Castlegate ©

Sky wept sadness
haunts the mind,
shoulders heavy with neglect
huddle in the Castlegate
in cold drizzled mists of grey granite.
Word tired mouths
spit blasphemes
across wooden benches,
bodies twisting, folding
like withered parchments.
Their wine drenched lips
kiss at nippled glass,
drip tears of meth-blown madness
and feed at the City's alcoholic breast,
trapping reflections in wet cobblestone.
With vacant eyes
they stumble,
drugged in single toxic worlds
a wild non-focused search for sustenance
through worlds that once was theirs.
She watches
knows their wanting,
offers cold sanctuary
among her pigeons and passing shadows.
She, the Castlegate nurses her children well.