Behind the lines of his cracked face
lies a journey of a struggle
his days of juggling copper
and sleepless nights on concrete floors.
His skin rains
under the orange noon
and as the crowds pass by
his eyes sing a wasted song.
The tattered material
the stench of his body
the turmoil of his emptiness
and the remaining days that follow.
He drowns his sorrows
in an immaculate sea
as he floats nearby the crystal sand
with his catatonic expression.
The dark butterfly has flown away
and the crowds pass by without notice
they can finally smell the lotus air
since the beautiful stench has gone.