His strangeness lays a comfort

on distant water, too far to name,

too cold to be near.

Wheat fields. Gold stringed faces

stand void of riches like the man;

both weave under winds from

an angry heaven.

Endless dark space above watches

the brim of his hat and dull scratched buttons

on a coat he uses as a blanket.

Sweet visions sing to him at roads end.

A night light of stars hangs loosely above;

a flat bag of soulless rocks

offering no comfort to the deep wells

in his eyes.


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