he whose feet dragged against the pavement;
lost willow leaves to the wind, guiding his path
down towards only an endless and fruitless
void; he whose robes trail after him like the tails
of comets and mice beneath the sand, and he
now who cries loud against the thunder; he is
holding blood in his hands and he weeps tears
to drink for himself; he who watches you, backlit,
your hair shining in the headlights of a premature
dawn and he who glances up at the pinkening sky,
parting his lips,
and walking on.