He is scraggled,
bathed only by the suns light during the hours of his slumber on Miami dewed, morn soil.
He sleeps off the night before, though he is not reminicent of it in his dreams,
as his slumber is no longer dreamt, but devoured by the nightmare of life,
and nights and days have begun to slur into one another
untill one becomes another,
and vice versa.
The empty bottle in the bag was dumped miles ago
on the side of a road no longer remembered,
and the facade of the beggar was dropped long ago,
as the face of hope was rendered.
The known knowledge of his future demise does not scare him,
as the only friend that brings him peace is the one that will destroy him.
But he is alright,
as the short lived calm of his decent into the burbon torrent
is his way of riding his nightmares,
and as he drinks his way away tonight, honey,
he knows,
this truely is all there is.

a.r.