The Jungle Poem by Alexander Beebe

The wave of people passing by, none dare to meet him eye to eye.
As if his presence blends right in, with alley trash, of mice and men.
Circumstances known by few, his history lost, no hope renewed.
If only one would pause to ask, what brought him here what deed what task?

In chapters far behind him now, a youthful vibrant man was found.
A product of a social scene, a well-kept house with hopes and dreams.
A wife and child adorned his side, on portrait canvas hung up high.
Economics fed him well, his purse was full, his ego swelled.

As with addiction, the hunger builds, the mind grows numb, the heart it yields.
What mattered most when he was grounded, concedes to greed that now surrounds him.
His mind is void of love and passion, except for drugs that know no ration.
Relationships he once held dear, discarded rubble, he hides the fear.

Once built on rock, now shifting sand-his anchors crumble, no pillars stand.
The yearnings of his misled heart, it now implodes, life falls apart.
Over time his coffers empty, possessions lost, pain is plenty.
Friends and family left his side-too often lied to, his words defied.

In the jungle, he now calls home, beggars beg and moaners moan.
Some are brought here without fault; some arrive with lessons taught.
Enveloped by the world he ruled, left to feed off crumbs and gruel.

On occasion he will see, soulful eyes of hearts that bleed.
In his cup a coin is given, timid eyes he looks to heaven.
Gracious is his heart and mind, "God Bless You Sir" is his reply.

In his past, not long ago, he too observed the Jungle's soul.
His tears they flow from thoughts that haunt, he scoffed at men who begged and sought.
Now his pride is caged and hidden, from the eyes of those who see him.
Tormented by the life he lost, his jungle home, he paid the cost.