Prophet In Plain Clothes

he walks the streets collar up to the snowfall. holes in pockets and knees.
sleeps in bar rooms and horse stalls. but you can't stay too long in one place.
"move along kid, we don't like your face."
mother's hold children close out of fear. father's curse under breath as they sneer. he walks the streets, years pass by with the snowfall.
time is wasted in drink, days begging and lost souls. holds no merit in vagrants in boxcars.
down in hell you best know who your friends are.
"not so proud scrounging for your next meal.
no alibis sold when with devils you deal. how does it feel to be all alone with no direction?
home is never home, it's just the place where you came from."
"home is never home," writ on walls of the church and the hostels. "home is never home," said by martyrs and lost souls. "home is never home," said the prophet in plain clothes as he strummed his guitar. and he screamed, and he sang.