Seagulls congregate like taxis along the liffey walls,
Lovers lock lips for September memories,
As street beggars inspect their daily hauls.
A man trudges homeward under the heavy burden of guilt,
Another searches for his conscience in vain,
Among the city's filth.
Youngsters sail by in innocent guile,
Judge, jury and defendants in some far flung future trial.
Life's sinful soldiers eagerly possessed,
Mingle freely with the sorrowful, the gentle, the repressed.
If the volume were turned down,
Then we could see the true color of this town,
No beeps, screeches, or engine noise,
Just windows of the soul sitting in clear and earnest eyes,
Some blank, some ornate, some decorated in blue,
Some green, some gray, some brown,
Through which I peer,
In an endless search, for You.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (The Search by Dermot McGarthy )
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