The man lay upon the city bench, his eyes closed against the day.
Dark aged skin warmed against the bleached and crackled paint.
Shadows of humanity are the only clouds to cross his mood,
a hastened pace helps avert its formless gaze when passing by.
What judgments has the world heaped upon him, or he upon his-self,
that has brought him to this space of civic consideration?
Is he ignorant of the angst he’s caused to be set upon our bliss?
To how disconcerting to the whole, his social presence is?
He is the dying form of a comrade seen through the smoke of the day’s long battle.
The one who is forsaken to preserve our flimsy rationales,
least we be brought low in some vain attempt to save our dignity.
Whose eyes once open might catch us in their noēsis gaze,
and hold us there unable to avert their silent condemnation.
Yet they are closed.
And our troubles stir him not.