The man in rags
is sitting on
streetside
curbing appetite
side walking
people peer
at mirrored
judgemental
perception
but he just stares
up at the Olympians
his thousand yard
smile taken
as that of
an imbecile
doesn't want to live
in a house
on street
in a box
with a number
stamped on it's face
can't see
the point
of being
a demographic
in ordered
systemic society
transmitting data disease
receiving signals as services
he won't wear
your stinkin' badges
your legacy of ideology
pinned to a soldiers chest
shellshocks & restocked
labeled tin man
canned & stacked
barcoded & tracked
faces stare out of
train on a track
never ever coming back
this is not lifes journey
from cradle to grave
conveniently forgetting
the shackle burns of
a poor brave slave
back in the day
Our mans hands are
not reaching for coins
in some hopeful grasp
for civil tellers tinkle
coins heft weighs down
pockets of hope
in wealths decepticon
instead he binds his feet
for the road ahead
is a trinity
3 points shine down
in space & time
the road beckons
with a grubby
gloved finger
vagabond puts out
the thumb
ear to ear
he's a
thousand yard
stare
one more...
for the road
i say
one more
for the road
my friend
