Lady Bird brain feasting on crumbling Mr. Noodle
and dry seeds
Tired tired eyes Like sagging hammocks
He is the nameless no speak
and opens His bandaged fingers for loose Change
by the grease bin
A pantomime gesture
Marking desolation warped by grace.
I say sorry to his sadness silent Street film
Compromised by addiction and scripted dead ends
And no true Beginning
At least he has her
The Cinematic napkin in the gutter looks like
A white dove cooing over the sea foam
frothing in a freedom swell
or the drifting cloud
With hints of red lovers lips clasped
Light in the abalone
Bed of dead petal less roses against
The damaged brick wall
Common sparrow can only
Fill the hearts of those who can hear.
Feeling is more than a touch
Or the torch smouldering within.
Floating weightlessly without
Value or face
What we trace purely Builds humanity for the Loving race.
It's the moments you can show care for those you have never known.
Those that have been over thrown
Hit by steel machines
Bent in the night shades
The lamppost hearsThe sorrowful whimper
Of the vagabond with The serviette pressed
To the blackened eye Each star reflected
A cosmos in every tear he spills
Cold and cardboard
Deck of faceless
Steam rising from
He is a hole within
a Hole of a man.
Francis A Willey October 25 2013