The Man

A vagabond walking down a one way street.

Knees wobbly with two eyes so blind they see.

He’s a cynical man, a heart half empty man.

A veteran, married to human affairs and social divorces.

A simple soldier within a beneficial battalion

Forgotten and put on lay away by the ones closest,

Left to be a memory always remembered a different way

Like a shattered glass thrown against a closed door.

He forms a mosaic of reflected insanity within the shards of self.

Pieces too scattered, blown away by winds of impatience,

Never recycled to be put anew, never molded for the better.

He was wounded by the generic genes passed down,

By the infinite blood that wandered this earth before.

A collection of life too alone and fragmented to live.

A history of dead beginnings and cancer ridden cul de sacs.

He’s a widower of time, that relative hag of echoes and emptiness.

He breeds tumbleweeds to be bounced down desolate streets.

He’s a man with a name playing a game forever on repeat.

The everywhere man who whispers in tempted ears.

No poncho or hanging cigar to start forest fires,

He’s left to roam the ghost towns of economic deformities.

Those mutants of the recycled recessions throughout time.

He is the man of us, whether birthed from the start

Or aborted by the unwanted enthusiasts.

He lives in our veiled synapses he calls highways

And surfs the blood tides of our internal arteries,

He is in the seed given and the seed thrown away.

A brother to our conscious and a mentor to the inner ID.

To ignore him is to ignore passion, anger and forgiveness

And all the other immeasurable emotions of a lavished and labored life.

He is you, bred from the big bang of emotive creation

He is you, living beneath the common skin of our brothers and sisters

He is you, whether in control or controlled by conformity

He is you..

He is you.

He is you.

And I am him.

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