How many men did he see,

Come beaten down after a tussle with insanity,

Who took refuge from love coming undone,

And the unwebbing of tightly coiled ego,

Frayed and twisted in a such a way,

That a prayer to God couldn’t save his fate,

Such a day laid in wait,

Where blues and golds sprung to stifle his gait,

An assault of conscience,

A ruse of pain,

A bitter sword

Left to strike its bane,

Streams whispering of currents anew,

As the battered soul trudges on with a betrayal

Of taunt and sinew,

And there he laughs glee as the spring’s morn;

The stillness as it quakes under the light’s dawn,

Grooves encroaches his brow,

Sweat nourishes his belly of solitude,

Leaves that have fallen a long time ago,

Brings warmth to concessions only he knows,

As one goes many will come,

To be held by the noon’s sun,

Before coming undone.
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