His harmonica plays a very sad, sad tune,
winter dressed, the calendar marks June.
All worldly possessions an old canvas bag,
clothes discarded by others, mostly of rag.
~
Supported by society by only their grace,
years of pain carved deeply, in his face.
Sleep under the stars and moon by night,
just another lost soul, a human plight.
~
He stumbles and falls concrete to face,
not a single passerby slows their pace.
No one to help, the old man’s strife,
when help does arrive, there is no life.
~
Nothing at all can be done, it is all so sad,
but to collect the old man and all he had.
In the city morgue a tag on his toe,
another lost soul, one of many John Doe.
~
The clerk records the contents, of a canvas bag,
all the old man’s possessions all that he had.
Just a lot of paper a few trinkets was the stash,
not a single coin, not a dollar there was no cash.
~
Upon closer look, years of retirement checks
and a few trinkets, the clerk must check.
All were there not a one did he cash,
Silver Star, Medal of Honor was the stash.
~
Turns out the old man is not just any John Doe,
but a man of courage and bravery, all should know.
A cold wind blows in the month of June,
his harmonica plays a very sad, sad tune.
Honorable mention
Gold trophy winner
Bronze trophy winner
Silver trophy winner
Adding your comment:
-♥Amy♥
Maria 
