He who expends his days a wanderer,
Is not aware of his gift,
Though he may hunger,
and steal into the wicked alleys
where the spirits of evil men dwell,
He lives and sees the world in a view,
one that is unimaginable,
as he sings lowly as he walks through the end of night,
He has no possessions that are worth possessing,
Such that another wanderer may wish for his own,
None except his life,
One of seeing the world from the outside,
As he is starving from within.

I gave him some money, and offered him my seat.
And society's eye upon me
as if I am naive,
but I wish them to hold their assumptions,
for I believed this man, even his lies.
I could sense his sincerity,
as distinguished from the typical
**** beggars that would scold
anyone's failure of compliance.
And though he solicited me until the last moment,
I knew that my advice may settle in,
and for he to use his supreme vantage point
of a Sufferer of the City, one without another,
I asked this man, who convinced me of his
desire to be a writer, to document his days.
And to educate himself, this 30-year-old, black, amputee,
Torn between drugs and gangs, and a better life
that is unattainable.

I asked him to be infallible in his refusal of
Those evils which will deteriorate his soul,
For its royalty will be paralleled not to material wealth,
but to any base behavior, or noble virtue.
and if he stutters in his gait, to channel such self destruction into
a productive means to write about his sufferings.

Richness in thought is temporary,
and once the pen is summoned,
such that I may document this moment,
I am found by a resistance...

For Greatness does not wish to be Held in Legacy.

Darker and darker did the sun shade the bluing sky,
until all that illuminated its hue was the ancient light
of stars long dead. An ancient Navy of the perpetually
fleeting starry Armada.

Bristles bare and leafless
While the air, though bitter, still cycles and swirls,
From the pulls of those leaves recently tumbled,
Such weight from their great mothers, relieved.
And so, thick the air is, with whipping rain,
Cutting into the smiles of any exposed faces
Like fangs, and hurriedly, as if late for their next stride,
They miss what beauty exists, and above their eyes resides,
Though wicked bristles are bare and leafless,
Each bears a diamond, from the fluttering rain, and so,
A thousand diamonds do I see on each tree,
While a thousand people yearn to be free,
But that, already, is what they are,
Rippling in the eye of the great twilight star,
Ever so fair is the light from its stare,
And heavenly air though bitter and bare,
Gives us life, as each day, it is there,
Not afar...