Dear diary, it's 1840

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

It's 1840 and the air smells delightful
The streets paved with dust
From a gathering to the streets
Of a war they say is a must

Dear child, why you are hiding
Why do you sit on the ground
As though you are minding
Something you don't want found

A time of leave or stay
Belong or lead astray
No documents of births
One could up and leave, never to be heard

Piped water becoming a thing
Orphan children on the streets they sing
Tip tap from the gentleman's handstaff
A small bow in a mute agreement
With passing fellow man

The split in the rich and poor
Handles of metal lay upon the wealthy doors
While the others unsafe
Working fingers to the bones in the hope for more

How times have changed
Conversation becomes slang
No button fixers on the corner
Ready to fix the jacket of a wealthy man

Buy a Metro
It's the one thing that still stands
No bell on the street for the news
The Internet now speaks for the bell ringing man

Hear ye, hear ye.....

 


Submitted: November 12, 2020

© Copyright 2020 Jenna-Vie. All rights reserved.

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D. Thurmond aka JEF

A well done snapshot, I enjoyed the visit.

Thu, November 12th, 2020 9:27pm

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