Street Kid

If he had known then
That this life wasn't worth living
He would have lain in the blood and flux of his mother's womb and died.
He hadn't asked to be born into this.
He'd have turned tail and scrabbled away.
He'd never known play.
He knew what it was to be hungry for days.
He slept to forget.
He slept because there was nothing left.
He could sit cross legged with his dusty, bloodied, dirt torn brothers.
Silent and watchful.
Leaning against walls.
Basking in the heat, waiting.
He knew what it was to run from guns.
His will to live was animal.
He was too young to think of death.
Though he saw it everyday.
He knew what was left.