Mr. Sen

I watched him like a poster and studied his detail...

His rags were the kind that had never spent time with riches
His colour was... homeless.

The kind where his cracked skin baked browner than a brownie
And his naturally black hair was somewhat that of a blondie

His eyes gazed at everything as his dazed state enslaved him
His possessions sized up to a mat and some sniffing glue
What a temple.

I watched him like a poster and he phased me

My identity crisis was that I saw Christ in him
And I wanted to bleed alongside His crusting crimson.

He stood up, once I had that thought.

To the poster on the street light
A little beauty store bought.

She had Photoshop features that had only captured her face
He seemed to be checking in on her in his intoxicated pace

But wait.
Nah, there was more to this man than his hazy eyes.
He rested his hand on her face as if it were the saddest of goodbyes.

I mean this guy was heartfelt... about whatever it was he was feeling.
I wonder if he'd ever had a real love
Or if glue helped him hush the past that'd be screaming.

No matter.

His affection was deep even to a recipient that wasn't really receiving
I saw his frustrated desire to love... releasing

The raw emotion of a homeless man spoke to the rawness of me
About something that needs housing.

If I have or give much without love - I am nothing.
If we watch from afar sheltered by our substances or circumstances

Then the grounds of love are never travelled.

I watched him like a poster.
A poster!