Writings in the Sand

The Homeless

They are the homeless - crumpled spirits that huddle together in corners and mutter against me. When the time came they were found unworthy, and thus, discarded. They were the first to tell the glorious story. Yet here they lie - formerly cherished, but now forsaken cast offs who have been abandoned and left to exist on scraps.

They see the work that went on without them and envy consumes them. Once they were part of it - the construction, the vision. But the vision changed without notice. Suddenly and without warning they were deleted out of existence. Muttering in mutinous anger they haunt me, and call to me.

I turn back to them for a moment, remembering my love for them, and yet they are not part of the work that goes forth and I cannot heed their calls.

Even amongst themselves there is division. Great and nice are considered to be common and unworthy company for the likes of splendorous and decorous and are relegated to a lower place. In the darkest corner, wrath and ruin join desolation in a cacophony of grievous moans at their fate.

Once they were all inspirations, scribbled hastily on bits of paper and store receipts, kept in jacket pockets until they could be set in place. Now they are set adrift in forgotten text files, victims of the editor's cut.

These are the homeless words.