His hair grew as coagulated blood
His scalp perpetually trying to reach his eyebrows
Skin greased and calloused
His eyes soulless
Yet seemed searching
Everybody was not afraid of him.

I gave him food once
I placed it on the ground where
He stood outside the church’s door
He barely moved
He slowly stooped
It was like watching a snail’s body melt
when you put salt on it
I wonder if he has ever uttered a word in his life
Of course I never expected him to say thanks
He was still slowly bending but I knew he
Wouldn’t get it unless I was not in sight.
But I desired to see him get it
I wanted to see if his face would ever change a bit
So I just went away thinking I starved him with my presence
I went back after a moment
The container lay on the floor, no chicken bones.
His eyebrows twitched no more
But the eyes were looking…somewhere.
Somehow.

I was baffled, have always been.
How is he supposed to live?
I can’t always give him food.
The priests might be busy too.
The altar boys might have been annoyed by his stench
So they would not get near either.
My house’s far from the church.
That wounded man would just keep staring at him from up the cross.
I wonder if the ***** ever asked the man to come down from his cross
And give him something to eat.

Or did he ever contemplate on bringing him down?