The streets are cold and empty.
In your bed,
Love and security warm you.
His shouts rise up and wake you.
He stomps and swears
At the people in his head.
They share no love,
No peace.
Later we pass him in the street.
The army in his head and he
Still battling ferociously.
We make no eye contact
Lest they unite
And attack us.
We give him space.
In a public place
He is given the right
To externalise his fight.
We give him space
But no caring bandage of love
To heal his wounds.
No armour of love
To protect him in his fearsome battle.
We give him space
And edge him
To the fringe
Of the mat of our society.
The tattered, tangled fringes
Of a large and spreading mat.
READ MORE POEMS BY SHARON HEANEY STANSFIELD