Like the pauper, sideways upon the roadways.
Like the pauper’s eyes, with no stare that enters backwards
To the trailing mind, like the road before him.
Like the pauper’s mind, imagined to be Hellish
In whatever dream he’s conjured to pursue,
Because the sun seems too hot, and unreachable,
As the gold he’s longed to breathe,
It is us.
A nothingness, in what we hold,
To live within it,
And to savor it.
Is the love that we behold, before ourselves,
In our mire, in our filth?
We are still standing sideways, like the pauper
Before the roadways.
With our mouth, we weep, instead of with our eyes.
We speak words of solemn attitude,
And attempt to drown them in our hands,
Upon when we shield our lips.
Death stands before us, offering a rose
To you, the mightiest of us two.
Our promise has become alike the pauper,
Without his mind, ever fixated
Upon something real,
Because he faces the sun, in the summer,
As easily as he does, for the winter.
As unreachable as the sun is,
So is our love,
Because, our hunger is still uneven as our lips.