The Cobblestone

Why does the man with the limp

stumble, but no soul dares to help?

I am a cobblestone with questions,

And as I sit in the mid of the street,

I feel the child fall, then welp.

Some mothers will run, others yell,

While the ground shakes as champions,

Who with much confidence stride

Over others who shuffle and scurry on,

As if they move while trying to hide.

I am a cobblestone and I have questions.

There’s things I don’t understand.

Like why do humans hold in them tension?

Fathers walking with his sons in silence,

The little girl, fearing the strangers.

It seems humans hold little balance,

I am merely a cobblestone observing

That you people run at a fast pace,

Leaving behind friends in need of help

And at times, yourselves without a trace.

Why do you stand around and yell yell yell,

As if your important enough to only tell.

If there’s silence, it’s not to listen,

Only to cry, eyes beginning to glistens.

As a cobblestone, I humbly question

Why do humans themselves only see,

Entitled, proud and bitter choosing to be.

All the while, the bottom of your shoes,

Well frankly, they’re all the same to me.