It's Darian on the corner of Abilene and 8th
For what must be the eleventh or the twelfth year straight
He's bent beneath the awning with a bottle in the rain
He ain't asking for your money, it'd just make him feel ashamed
He's looking for a home in a hundred hurried hands
That pass his weary body by without a second glance
And he feels the tears falling from a father unseen
Who's looking down in sorrow but he doesn't intervene
Darian lifts his eyes to the wind swept streets
As the figures hurry by with a chatter in their teeth
The last witness of what happened in this place
And he tries to tell them all but they never slow their pace
He tells them about the voices, he tells them about the sound
And how there used to be a quarry at the edges of this town
And he tells them about the people, some alive and some gone
The pale-skinned poet with bruises on her arms
Who made a path for herself from those that did her harm
Darian falls silent and curses the cold
His stomach is empty and the shelters are full
He holds a heavy breath as the rain turns to snow
Just staving off death- a couple days or so
He's waiting there for something that he can't quite explain
An answer to a question he could never really name
Just something he can grab as he collapses to the floor
Maybe make amends with the friends he doesn't speak to anymore
And as he loosens up his grip
And as the bottle empties out
And the darkness closes in
And the wine stains the ground
He can feel himself lifted
Above the alleys and the towns
And to whoever will hear
He finds the words that he's tried to say for years