Dear God…. you know the voices of many- in urban jungles like this. The concrete stays inflamed. Her heat is without satisfaction. Lonely musicians harp cords into galley- ways.
Afar off the city writes letters to the dead. Why haven’t you come home? Why haven’t we made this place home? Who’s left to shed blood? Whose smiles are forgotten?
Who is now to abide … Tribulation, degradation, violations, so what is…. what is…. alleged convictions of twisted morality, “Our fathers sit on benches” with their submissions in toe…~Krissy (photo taken by my personal camera this past winter)
A Poet's Vision 
Why haven’t we made this place home is the question of our lives. Fix racism? We can’t. Fix the rogue police, so many of whom are vets who can’t get jobs and have had no treatment for ptsd? We can work and shout and try but ultimately we can’t. Take despair out of the hearts of those buried in addiction? Slowly perhaps. But make this place home to one person then another then another. That we can each do. And change the world. As simple as whoever it was gave the girl in the photo a towel to kneel on.
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My dear friend, you are right -well said….
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