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Walking In The Rain
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Teardrop of Coloured Soul In the morning, it seems right
that the rain should fall and the
sun is hidden by the clouds.
The birds fly low with their
own missions to perform,
and the drunk man down the street
stumbles his way home.
Solitude is the begging
of wisdom and the end of
desire is craving attention again.
Dropping coins from his hands;
the drunk man filters his pain
through his moments of bliss.
In zone I cannot fathom or
barely come to understand
lives the heart of this man,
pickled though it may be.
What story does he travel with?
What message does he bring?
Wet hair plastered to his face,
the drunk man glazes at the sidewalk,
barely able to read the inscriptions
carved upon the cement.
He stops a tiny second to adjust
his zipper, it had been left down
since he had last used a urinal.
Was he remembering his first time
with a woman? Or his last time
with his wife? Was he running from
everything, or a memory in
particular? The drunk man
returned to his vision, which was
to obliterate his existence as
best he knew how. Tragically,
few paid attention to him, they
were used to seeing his shifting
walk in the early morning rain.
