He still walked the streets, one score and a decade later,
A little bent, wee bit wizened, graying at the temples,
Straining at his pushcart, a raised finger as a gesture,
Love for sale, no charge, unlimited shelf life,
Come one, come all, there is enough for everyone,
HE carried the Cross, Sins, greed and mistrust,
I give it free, the burden of love, take it free and give it free,
And when my pushcart is empty, crucify me,
Not on a cross, not in the middle of a desert,
Or with a spear through my heart,
But glued to a mound of flesh and blood,
Of human beings, rotting and stinking with hate,
Of human beings who refused my free offer of love.

It’s  good life yonder
A misty world, swirling, silent cold mist
Creeping on you so silently, taking you in its embrace,
A cold cuddle you may call it,
I feel safe, protected against the cracked , dry, drooling faces,
Of the real world.
I live as I may, I laugh and cry and scream and stifle my voice,
On my own free will,
I love and I hate , I smile and I snarl
On my own free will.
This is my land, my own land, my fantasy land.