Streetfare.
Parting the crowd like a heated, rusty blade
through pristine snow
his aching blistered feet carry him as if in a dream to the place housing his destruction.
Each day his mouth empties of pleas for change;
each passerby a silent ear to his suicide note of incoherent ramblings,
his tounge arid and trembling for another sip
so he may sleep peacefully beside the demons
who brought him here
to spend his days a wreck as a broken statute of a man among the millions of perfect china dolls.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)