The Street Walking man
I dreamt of a weathered man last nightRambling his way down a windswept street
Talking his way around the corners of main and third
Hole speckled gloves embraces his fingers
And raw blisters cement his feet
His eyes are vacant of welcome and peace
They are just crystal holes that reflect that sky
He collects things, such as autumn leaves, and forgotten keys
Holding them in his woolen mane
Arousing questions of futility
Or, as dared by some, a life-string of simplicity.
posted by Unknown @ 7:21 AM
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