The Vertedero

Smoke drifts my way painting the sky with a small ghoulish streak
   revealing the path to your fire
It's a cold morning and breezy adding to the chill,
   the chill that you've grown to call normal
As you sit outside your tattered and faded patchwork tent, if you can call it that,
   your simple home here in The Vertedero
The fire isn't just to fight off the icy blasts of wind,
   but it's your functional stove to cook the drugs you'll consume minutes later
Your body wastes away as broken dreams and shattered love cling to your skin
   like the caked on, muddy and foul smelling clothes you wear
You're brown attire is accessorized with a piece of rope knotted around your waist, your belt,
   and two shoes that don't match, one encased in plastic bags, both of which are several sizes too big
The police enter now, they circle but do absolutely nothing on this patrol run
   Other cars come and go quickly, stopping in this war zone for drugs and prostitution
Though they come here often, there are no friends in this world,
   merely takers and users and selfish gain
I watch beside the locked and silent whitewashed church
   as four men sit exchanging needles inside the car parked next to me
Sanity flees and hysteria from heroin arises as needles hang from limbs and crack vapor arises
   Within steps of your dementia I stand offering tangible help, food and drink and the hope of Christ
But you blind your eyes with fiendish drugs and devilish lies
   Thus, the battle goes on in this neglected war zone for your soul and life
Mere steps from the exit road filled with life and hopeful opportunity