Sun does tickle his dreams on the blazing pave
when pass by him countless feet honking cars
fires don’t burn him nor do elements make him slave
upon him the street dirt is powdered stars.

In the luxurious cushions bed is a veritable thorn
sleep defers or visits not eyes’ awakened nightmare
men burn power to being breathing to the morn
while his eyelids at dreams’ wonder gapingly stare.

There’s a kingdom carved by him where gods don’t reign
a few picked crumbs magically brew metabolic bliss
fairies stir laughter misty angels wipe out pain
the moment his head the concretes kiss.

It isn’t hunger that in his deepest bowel gnaws
but a gratitude not battered by existential flaws
for being gifted a mind broke free sanity’s laws
be just there amid rush an island of pause.