A man of this life
knows his story
too well,
he walks the streets
leg one leg two
at just the right speed:
moving at a glide
because it's gray outside,
the frozen tide
of the open cut concrete
is hard underneath
the soles of his worn shoes,
they hold a pair of dart like feet
that walk through
the jagged edges and
changing pathways,
talking in tongues
about lurid destinies
of lacking destination,
a babbling that never reaches an ending,
the two are crooked and bleeding
but they always keep
through this crowded street
that the man
in the palm of his right hand
has learned to hold
a “hello” for,
stretching far from his arm
it is quiet and scared,
so often invisible
but hoping,
not hopeful,
that someone will see
beneath its creased,
mistrusting,
bare naked and often mistaken
surface,
but with it
is a perfect fist
strapped like a puppet
to this tacit brother
in the man's
left pocket,
fingerless and mastered
to smash into bits
what may be caught
by the other cupped misfit,
whether friend or enemy
they are always mistaken,
so the beating
makes them scream
in victory,
horrendously and
harmoniously sprayed
in the liquids leaving
Whatever's seam,
“whatever”
they seem,
thoughtless of the backlash
only meant for the brain,
it solely knows and
takes the blame
for the horrid red stain,
trying to love
when the brother
habitually
frames the other
into maiming
another
who is all alone
DON'T!
it wants to re-aim
the darts
that leave
on pavement
straight for misleading paths
WAIT!
It planned to create
a noose for the unstable
connections between
those lost A's and
the angry B
and that fretful C but
ANY!
Thing can happen, and
ANY!
thing will,
ANY!
One
would really help,
and now there's not much
LONGER!
Till you truly understand,
The very end is very close
for that man - he is ******.