Here is an old man, who waits by a window,
With cheap plastic roses and memories of people,
Who once might have said they'd be glad to sit with him,
And promised their friendship forever.
And here is a widow, alone with her children,
Patiently waiting for hunger to claim them,
Yet hoping that someone might pay some attention,
Before they are faced with the winter.
Oh, to belong; to someone;
When the magic of living has gone
And here are the children, who live for the moment,
Yet in times to come will be locked in a prison,
That We in our ignorance carry on making,
Forgetting that We too, are Human
And what of the Man, who, because he is lonely,
Is bound to exact his revenge on the people
Who pay no respect to the fact that he only
Desires to be wanted by anyone;
Oh, to belong; to someone;
When the magic of living has gone
And here in a garden, a lady with flowers,
And cats by the dozen, to fill up the hours;
A distrust of people distilled from a lifetime,
Of never belonging to anyone.