The Search

Standing on the bridge holding tattered flyers,

While stumbling drunks struggle for breath,

Their crumpled clothes hanging from their frail frames,

With smeared make-up and hazy sight.

The parade of tear-streaked faces blankly staring,

Into the blackened river.

I desperately search of scraps of humanity,

But these drones cannot comprehend,

The tragedy of this situation.

“Fuck off” they screech as the police approach them,

Then chuckling it off like a childish joke.