I live in a desert
My Dear.
With a loopy-eyed cat who bites
and a roommate who might as well.
All of my clothes are ripped and stained
and I don't know where I'll be working tomorrow.

The other vagrants and I
We can't afford to stay,
but we can't afford the gas to leave,
either.
The summers are too hot--
the winters are too cold--
and the days and the nights are too dangerous.

But we're here
and we're young.
And someone has to feed the cat.

She is just going.. going places.
She is leaving without any traces.
She is aimlessly travelling in search for something.
Like a vagabond, she is just wandering.
Try not to stop her, because she is actually falling.
Falling in love.

He wasn't a loner.
He was just a wanderer in search for a place where he could find peace.
His imagination was too vivid and wild. His mind was like a sphinx, impossible to decode.
His thoughts were a tangled mess of knots.
He was a mystery.
He was never able to seek peace but he found something intriguing. He met her.
Just like him - Wandering like a gypsy, with chaos occupying her mind.
She was like the missing piece from his jigsaw puzzle of a life.
Together they dreamt about all the magical infinities they longed for all their lives.

Bucket full of coins and lint
From pockets of the passing
He sits there staring silently
His sign board does the asking

Truth be told he only wants
Money for his drink
His sign expresses honestly
What the passers by all think

Why Lie, Need *****
is written on his card
But, to look this man right in the eye
Is really something hard

He doesn't smile, is dressed for warmth
Even though it is quite warm
I don't think it's for the weather
It's for his own internal storm

That rips apart inside his soul
A storm that no one's seen
It knocked him on a wayward course
He lost who he might have been

We'll never know just who he was
We only know him at this hour
For those who pass him here each day
He's known as Whiskey Sour

He sits there with his plastic tub
Watching people on their way
Whiskey Sour thanks them kindly
No matter what they say

A victim of his own devices
Or a victim of all ours
No matter where you walk and look
You will all meet Whiskey Sours.

The brimstones golden hunger, and leaking thoughts, the creeping delver lingers, haunts. Swelling faith, like flame to moths, truth re echoes like the sting of wasps. Cloaked man, from another land, faultlessly faithful in dying truth. Unhappy sinner, begs for refuge. Stirring again his thin sole shoes.