The Homeless Musician

Clay Kohut
The homeless man sets down his can and then begins to play,
singing the songs from older days,
he doesn't dress like he's been paid,
I stall to listen,

Oh his guitar has traveled far and ended up on main,
his lone companion on the train,
the sole catharsis for his pain,
his eyes, they glisten.

The tears that fall will have a ball, they rise into the sky
the cycle repeats all your life,
continues after you die,
continues after.

The babe that cries will one day die and never live again,
this looming fate awaits his friends,
for every story has an end,
but some end faster.

Published by Clay Kohut

Weighing in at 10 pounds 8 ounces, I was a large baby. So large, in fact, that by the time I was 8 I had learned to walk, talk, and fly an airplane.  View profile

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