Hopelessness Stories

In the grim back alleys of the city, Mean streets devoid of all signs of pity, Amid the piles of decaying refuse And slimy pools of darkly noxious ooze, Frequented only by the scuttling rats And noisome tribes of scabby feral cats; Here, slumped in doorways, human flotsam lies, Just filthy piles of rags crawling with flies. In such surroundings one would not expect To find evidence of beauty’s rare spark, Yet with more ca...