Christus Rex in the city

Tonight, the city cold and gray,

he lies there swaddled in his tattered blanket

as wisps of steam rise, like angel wings,

around his prone body.

No one sees him, he’s a ghost,

the crowds too harried,

as they look upon the Jumbotron,

advertising the latest.

His hands and feet,

raw and bloody,

his cup half full of coins.

Foxes have holes,

birds have nests,

he lies there forgotten,

a reminder of humanity’s waste.

Soon, he’ll have to move,

to wander through urban wasteland,

tempted by the easy,

by the bright lights,

the glam and glitter,

of the false idols of greed.

His path is chosen,

in his ragged robe,

hair stringy and matted,

beard, greasy, bits of food clinging.

He blesses more than receives,

as another coin clinks,

he looks up knowing,

the vision before him,

guides his way,

through the heartache,

as he watches empty souls, 

wander through self made deserts.

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