Vagrant (early years poem)

He walks the streets from dusk till dawn
He has no friends he's all alone
His worldly goods are on his back
His clothes are shabby his skin charred black

Though passers by may shun this man
He tries to do the best he can
They seem to think he chose this life
We made this man, We caused his grief

With a thirst he drinks, when tired he sleeps
But it's not a bed, he sleeps on the streets
His every day remains the same
He wants to die to ease the pain