There is no fragrance of sweet roses on the streets
just the smell of despair and hope of survival.
Either you live by your wits or die by your naivete
trust does not flow like water from a kitchen sink,
it is rare like that of a pearl in the ocean.
Love is scarce, except for under tattered newspapers,
people sleeping on cold concrete always need love,
some form of affection to show they are human.
Wandering in the neon night distorts reality,
these times are for nocturnal, soul searching bonfires.
In their bleak world nothing looks promising in the light
of day, at least at night there is cover of darkness,
to give warmth and a compassion to a homeless soul. . .
Timothy Michael DiVito c 1995
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