the fast run of errands through the city's
heat, past that garden where no two flowers
are the same, and excludes the ones
who wish to document the sliver of peace
it proclaims to offer.
Back to this dilapidated building,
it's walls grey like fading fungi,
the unhinged doors hang like the open
scars they poorly conceal, their handles
as hot as lava. The same clothes hung,
stained with smoke and the same stale stories.
The bustle of gentry, who perch hands
upon pearl lampshades, ignoring the rapid
passing of feet that struggle to invest in time,
let alone trinkets. They throw little sympathy
in either direction, leave a trail of stale breadcrumbs
no one can collect.
That single wise voice lifts slowly from that makeshift
bed, it's eyes like dust covered hub-caps, and slowly
graces the day with the usual lack of expected acceptance.
It rises above this smog once more, to again fulfil it's
mission, to continue preaching the good word.