That Face, That Face

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/ poetry

I stand in this room, the floor is made of glass, walls of mirrors. Empty thoughts surrounds me. Eyes are staring back at me that pierce my very soul.

That Face, That Face

From my penthouse situated high above Park Avenue, I decided to take a drive in my Lincoln limousine, as I walk to my car. This bum, this homeless thing beneath me had the nerve to ask for some spare change. I called for my security to remove this thing from my sight. That, bum had no right.

As I am driven down the block, that face? that face? That is so familiar to me. But how? He’s a bum, a scum. They should have laws against sights like that. As I sit and eat my six hundred dollar meal in front of me, I keep visualizing that face? That face? That is so familiar to me. But how? He’s a bum, a scum. They should gather them all up and shipped them off, so I don’t have to look upon such a sight. That face? That face? That is so familiar to me. How dare he invade my thoughts like this? He’s a bum, a scum.

Back in my penthouse, I prepare for bed surrounded by the riches I have made. That face? That face? That is so familiar to me. But how? He’s a bum, a scum. He don’t have the right to breathe the same air as I do. As I sleep that face? That face?  That is so familiar to me. That face, that face, it suddenly comes to me as I awaken in a cold sweat surrounded by cardboard boxes. That face! That face!

                                                                   Is……. Me!

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