A Full Life Of Narrow Streets Poem by James Fitzpatrick

Along a steep hill, at the edge of a great town,
A freezing blanket creeps as a soft sparse mist
Hovering lightly above the body a of man.
For a few cool moments it envelopes him,
Soothing his tired senses,
As he lies counting loudly
the passing of mellifluous grey mountains.

On a sharp hollow sound, he turns his gaze slowly left,
Where the bells are singing out a another defiant beat,
And snow lands softly on a faraway moon.
In front, but not close by,
The wet flakes melt lines of morning strollers,
With the hoofs of companions embossed upon the heather.

His eyes close as he settles to dreams of futures possible,
Picturing rows of steaming turrets, sharpened blades,
And crumbling fear, as they draw known faces on fancy paper.
He hears whispered talk of sagging brows and lobbing smiles,
Scribbling and Scripting our morning news.
New artisans paint Headlines in his head,
"Work, save, and Beg.
Make ends meet,
Work those streets,
Bare them writers, debaters,
Leaders, loiters,
Teeming with poor lice".

Upset now, he straightens, filled with sculpted fear,
And flagging hope,
Devouring ideals of painful labour,
Darkened evenings of poetic prose.
The Narrow Alleys echo his comrades screams,
‘They are Flogging the undesirables‘.

Cries of the deserted ring out in his ears,
As sweat now pores on dirtied boots.
On A One page of women Jubilant,
Black Coffins swim across the oceans,
Singing corpses chant the Voters Slogan
‘The great appear great,
Only because we are on our Knees'

The Parisians have embraced the soul of his youth, stole his heart,
Hardened his resolve,
And emancipated print the newest of his chapters.
He'll fall upon the lords great will,
The Singers and Wobblies will call and cheer,
While unrest leaves lanes of torn and listed books.

It's a world only make believe could
Make so real.
Locked in, Locked out,
Fattened Guerrillas stalking shadows
In jungles of law and lands,
Their people Long since, Ner' forgotten,
For He hears their whispers in his sleep.

Cries of the deserted ring out in his ears,
As sweat now pores on dirtied boots.
On A One page of women Jubilant,
Black Coffins swim across the oceans,
Singing corpses chant the Voters Slogan
‘The great appear great,
Only because we are on our Knees'

The Parisians have embraced the soul of his youth, stole his heart,
Hardened his resolve,
And emancipated print the newest of his chapters.
He'll fall upon the lords great will,
The Singers and Wobblies will call and cheer,
While unrest leaves lanes of torn and listed books.

It's a world only make believe could
Make so real.
Locked in, Locked out,
Fattened Guerrillas stalking shadows
In jungles of law and lands,
Their people Long since, Ner' forgotten,
For He hears their whispers in his sleep.