He used to be someone's wee little babe,
soft, innocent and pure.
But now his eyes are a white ocean,
with red currents and yellow bays.
His mouth slightly open, as if the
wind has stolen his words.
He is surrounded by two worlds,
that flow in different directions.
Smoke hangs in the air, like a
curtain of despair.
The hot gravel uder his cracked feet,
burning him, branding him.
The Tea man pities him.
The Tea man feeds him sometimes but
it is not enough, never enough.
He is not like the others,
who beg from conveniently frugal ghosts.
For he is just standing. Just standing.
His pilgrimage more severe than most,
has left him not bent, but broken,
and like the abandoned home of the crustaceans, washed ashore,
he is just a shell of a man,
empty within and useless,
just a peculiar object at best.
But he used to be someone's wee little babe,
Soft innocent and pure.