Microcosm

There's an old man sitting over there,
Playing his heart out on an antiquated accordion,
Retracing the path of his past with his calloused hands
And softening the hearts of many with his tales of hardship.

There's an old lady, on a bench with a blanket,
Muttering small nothings to the shadows that surround her,
Hoping for company, but dreading it as well.
She hums along to the accordion that's been playing in her head.

There's a litre boy tugging at the bottom of a man's shirt

Wavering lips, begging frightened eyes.
I would say he wants to be picked up,
And be propped onto his fathers shoulders,
As he used to do before that winter came.

There's a seventeen year old girl
Standing in the middle of the crossroads
With a backpack hunched on her back
Her tights are ripped, and her makeup is smudged
But her hair remains perfect, glistening in the rain.

There are pieces of dreams scattered down the streets,
Where alleyways conceal nonsense-driven nightmares,
Where the memories of the past mingle with the perceptions of the present.
Where a bookstore on the corner of two forgotten streets
Holds every dusty image anyone has ever laid eyes on.