The Man of the Fields
He was kind and empty
He had no breakfast, no diploma, and no direction
He had no recognizable achievements but a certain poetry in his manner of talking
He desired no ownership or property beyond that damn guitar
He liked sleeping in the strawberry fields under the sun because home got too far to walk back to
He liked kissing beautiful girls
He liked making himself hurt just to feel something
Sometimes he felt so much it became nothing at all
He was a sad person, and if he resonated with you a little too much, a little too long, a little too deep
He would make you sad too
But not violently sad, beautifully sad
The kind of sad that still allows for occasional glimmers of something new- a melancholic hope
A flighty hope, but it was real
And it would make him feel something
So if you find him somewhere, wrapped in a blanket
Giving you a crooked, nostalgic smile
And he tells you he’s up for anything,
And he tells you that you don’t know how to live in the moment
And he tells you he can teach you
Reeking of substance and wasted talent
And whistling a song that haunts you
He’ll breath you in. Tell you he smelled your new conditioner and compassionate intentions from a mile away.
Let his eyes pierce through you for a moment, and it will give him comfort
And it will dilute your joy and make you feel momentarily alive
Remember the beauty of empty shells that have a little depth to them
Hold him gently like a wounded bird, and nurse him back to health, and peel away his layers until you get to the good part.
He’ll disarm you and make you feel special.
You’ll remind him that he’s real.
And if you get too sad
Tell him you wish him the best and that you’ll come by some other time
And you’ll ask where to find him
And he’ll have no answers
No answers, no breakfast, and no recognizable achievements
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