There's a hole in his bucket with his soul as he lugs it..
His whole isn't much an its as if he's controlled by a covenant..
Through it he soldiers like it's nothing until his shoulders is slumping..
And it sobers his stomach to dream when its over and done with..
People seem to shred what they see when he begs and he pleads..
So he stays in a bent down fence with a sheet for protection and sleep..
Trash stops small threats of a freeze
but not from drenching with ease..
An he's like an aquarium's collection of seas
displaying the depression he keeps..
The strong survive so long the night has nothing stronger to fight..
Looking at the stars thinking of how old is the sight in the cold of his plight..
Trying to stay bold cause his life depends on him to get over this life..
But under the hold of a knife the impossible can bring an enclosure of strife..
How do you cope with that suffering? Blood only coats that the cuts real..
Even those with no rope and a rough deal can dream of coasts and suns feel..
Life can coax us to come heel and that it will be the soap to a scum's seal..
He might not show his sister a good life but he hopes that his love will...
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