The City Walker

I saw him walking barefoot
Through the littered city streets
The soles of his feet were black like tar.

His head was titled upward in wonder,
And amazement, at the afternoon sun.
His glassy eyes, which I peered through in a vain attempt
To catch a glimpse of his soul,
Were spheres of emptiness,
Barren like the land
His ancestors sleep in.

That place is a living vesicle,
Full of spirits which feel his presence,
When he sits at the foot of an old peak,
Or tip-toes over the rotting forest floor,
Like he used to tip-toe
When he slipped from his bed as a child—
Carefully stepping over the eight family members
Dosing uneasily in his bedroom—
On his way to the bathroom.

But his home is nothing more now,
Than a breeding ground for parasites,
Which rape the land, violating
His ancestors with cold fury
And mechanical indifference, only
To build a shiny concrete abscess,
On Mother Earth’s beautiful face.

And on his face lingers a dying smirk,
As if he was shot mid-laugh.
They call him a drug addict.