Forty-Nine. Between The Cracks.

Hope grows between cracks in the asphault
In the downtown ghetto streets that contour
the government housing intentions of my heart

no one notices the daisies don’t care
about gang related violence
as long as they get enough air and water and sun
they’re all just fine

Who would’ve thought it but life is finding a way
through this wasteland of cynics, concrete, and pain.
There’s a man down here somewhere between
the Saturday cartooons and the dirty magazines.
He’s raising the dead in the graveyards
Where we’ve laid down our dreams
His name is Hope.

-John Mark McMillan

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