Through the din of the city,
their whispers break through,
ghosts of the gutters,
their tales retold anew.
As I sit to eat,
they gather unseen,
voices of the vanished,
narrating the in-between.
They scream in the rustle
of the papers I discard,
a chorus of the damned,
life forever marred.
Coins laid on the sill,
offerings to appease,
by morning they’re gone,
stolen by a silent breeze.
The dead watch closely,
guardians of despair,
their eyes on the pennies,
floating in the air.
Each bite I swallow,
each crumb I dare waste,
a banquet for specters,
in haste, they punish in haste.
I’m the mouthpiece of the fallen,
the voice of the poor,
channeling the lost souls
from the skid row floor.
They haunt my actions,
make damn sure I remember
the scarcity of life’s last warmth
in the cold beyond repair.
Underneath the city’s glow,
where shadows sprawl and seethe,
the forgotten beg for memory
beneath the wreath.
I walk their path,
heavy with their weight,
in the grip of their whispers,
I fight their fate.
So here I stand,
a conduit to the past,
bearing witness to lives overcast.
Their voices guide me
through each lonely night,
in the echo of their suffering,
I find my light.