Bum's Portrait
He sits with his head upon his hands
His eyes are red
And water that glued the sands
Sun sucked, slithered from the sandy bed
His thoughts are the hourglass
Grains of meaning mincing away
His castle was the sheltered pass
Tomorrow in today decay.
The officer who came to the door
Polite as an exterior of class
Knocked his ego to the floor
Set his emotions to tinder like grass
Dry as the cinders of his life:
It was she who picked up the knife
She who wanted out as wife
So many things unspoken, so much rife
And he cannot own that argument again
He lost in the public sphere
While he was at the war enduring pain
Treason was a shift of change here.
The officer asked him if he had somewhere
To go ... leaving the house his hands built
He wandered through the cold night air
Racked by conscience alternating guilt.
Then here ... to sit and muse alone
Rejecting interventions of the court
To share what was his own
He relinguished property and support
Except from the sweet distil of fruit
And wanders between the staggering eye
Victim of an altered truth
Forgotten mortal under infallible sky.
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