The Bum

With an uncanny air of dignity, my existence is looked upon as i
Enter his humble abode…

This prehistoric king, now the reflection of a time long lost,
A state of grace long past and moments of greatness that finally withered,
Leans forward slowly;
He Studies me steadily
Hunched in an incorrigible manner...
                                                                                                        He
Views me as his enemy, the violator of his space
The disruptor of isolation and solitude while
                                                                                                        then speaks
In a tongue unfamiliar, sounds muffled;
I stares at the crackled flesh that furrows his brow,
Slightly enlarged hands which shown
Many battles fought, while his expression reveals
Many battles lost…especially the one with life…
A raw sweet scent lingers from the corner of his mobile palace,
The crust of hunger, forming on the corners of his mouth
Bags shielding a foot from the elements scattered upon the floor of
His fortress snaking through the veins of a city
He once conquered; what had become of this sovereign being
monarch of the day, emperor of the night?
Now he sits defeated amongst
sight seers; and vagabonds, the make of his own kind
who seem not to mind, the state of their being…
cover by the journal composed of many individuals
who observed his dissension from stateliness,
                                                                                                            slowly he rises and
wipes off the decorative items which
clung loosely to his chiefly garments,
swathed with stains and draped in dirt…
                                                                                                            he smiles
that rotten gummed smile
and gave a little nod
                                                                                                            then slithers off
into the depths of dark depression
which could be anyone’s fate.