The Homeless..

A Kodak photo that may have been taken in 1807 portraits a homeless skinny grey haired man. Maybe he escaped the starvation. In another thought, the poverty, or a misleading judgement of a so called creatures; kind a….

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In all cases, he seems as if he ran for ages, his jacket was taken away midway to the village. A jacked he did not tailor its pockets. Those were not meant for a fancy Channel wallet. His eyes were pale yellow, just close to his tiny chin. He laid down on his site facing the camera man, the back ground as a roller shutter of a local pastry shop. The owner was anything but a generous guy. The homeless lips cracked of thirst and hunger burned out his muscles. Left him craving for anything edible, maybe a left-over piece of bread hoping to dip it in water instead of honey before totally enjoying its refreshing blossom. The homeless recaps ancient memories; temporary though before waking up to the last scene of a zombies’ carnival.


Butterflies’ bones.

Read her mind; soaring sorrows;

years of solitude made her an errant coward;

strawberry bubble baths, no more;

just wandering brownish zombies at the bloody floor;

plucking infant’s ears at the nurseries,

tress flew out of the buss windows.

Mothers’ cries shreds puffy toxic lungs.

Has Eryngium grew on butterflies’ bones?

Ebony-like bones of a seductive curvy waist.

read again;

 conscience purified.

Now, read beyond her bones’ aroma.