The Writers Voice
The World's
Favourite Literary Website
Underpass
by
Rusty Broadspear
God Bless You My Son
Finding reflective surfaces
Amongst and beneath the grime
Of this monstrous concrete cavern,
The voice bestowed a muffled echo
Equal to that of the traffic above.
Darkness an early unwelcome companion
Concentrates between concrete monoliths,
Playing out fitful nightmares elsewhere.
Accompanied by varied stench
A constant chilling wind
And a domineering burden of loneliness.
The black concrete sky
A shield from a human tide.
City lights beckon,
Creeping further away.
Feeling cold and old,
Missing lost loved ones,
I rest in this filth and quietly sob.
Then I hear the voice.
God Bless You My Son.
Through frosted glass eyes
I see a priest looking down at me.
Hes young, smells of aftershave
And offers a clean, manicured hand.
I greedily accept
Blubbering forgiveness.
In a voice too deep for his build
He says
Son, you are not lost.
Only one footstep has strayed from the path.
Stand by me
Ask not why of me
And I will send you to true fruition.
I am with you my son,
You are never alone.
I stood in the darkness and filth
And all I could see was light.
Alone, I walked proud, smiling,
Knowing all would turn out all right.
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