Most human beings are living like ghosts,
Not really knowing what the future holds.
Whilst we wash in the slime,
In our own cardboard homes.
There is a building, that is your home.
Once picture perfect; now in ruins after a cyclone.
Now like those you once looked down upon,
From your self appointed pedestal;
You too have become what you used to call a bum.
But now you must call them what they are;
A friend, an enemy, a homeless dying drunk,
Sleeping in a burnt out car.
In need of shelter; just as you are.
But the tramp that gave you shelter;
Shows charity starts at home.
For when the streets become your home
And you have lived that way for many years;
You will look at people in their suits
And recall once hearing all the cheers.
Success was such an easy thing to attain;
But compassion for your fellow man, has become your new aim.
For when you have lost all your worldly possessions
And you have realized your working life, is simply a profession.
Then maybe you will see clearly, find some sort of consolation;
Once you have regrouped and once more risen.
You have to begin your life, all over again.
But the partner standing by you, is in the same situation.
Then three years down the line,
As you sit there upon your throne;
You remember the bad old days have now come and gone.
But you are no longer a snob;
Now you no longer live for your job.
Now you no longer choose to live alone;
You can now open up to a fellow human being and live life as one.
