His story isn't often told, rather dismissed, like the cup he holds out desperately seeking silver coins or green pieces of paper which hold the images of men who would not receive the likes of such a man. Have you looked deep into the holes beneath his brows? Have you felt the ill's of his internal anguish troubling his weary existence? The symbols of loneliness which crash against his deaf ears, slowly illuminating the path to the unknown? So he just stands there riding the foamy wave of the second, minute, and hour as desolate images devour his connection to the true source of time and space, the grace bestowed his angelic face. The footsteps which pass him daily haven't, only worried about their obligations to society. To many Hell the expectation, but to me Heaven the destination. Throughout his cracked pavement kingdom he dwells among angels of the gutter paradise, seeking an understanding from their broken eyes. Eyes which have seen the sun turned black, eyes which have danced with the alleyway diplomats, eyes which have witnessed love