Side of the hill Poem
Beneath the city’s ceaseless hum,
A figure rages, voice untamed,
A symphony of shouts they strum,
On streets of concrete, anger framed.
The man in the sidewalk, like a ghost,
Unseen, unheard, a fleeting form,
His words, a tempest, tempest-tossed,
A silent storm within the storm.
His eyes, they dart, his hands they clench,
At unseen foes, at battles fought,
His mind, a labyrinth, a wrench,
Where reason’s thread is tightly caught.
The passerby, with hurried pace,
Averts their gaze, a flick of eye,
No time to delve in sorrow’s space,
No answer for the silent cry.
But pause, a moment, lend an ear,
Beyond the rant, the raving rhyme,
A broken soul, both filled with fear,
And yearning for a gentler time.
For in the depths of every shout,
A story waits, unheard, untold,
Of struggles faced, of dreams cast out,
And battles fought, both fierce and bold.
So let us not with judgment bind,
The man who shouts on concrete cold,
But with compassion, seek to find,
The heart that’s lost, the story old.
