(Untitled)

The was an artist once, who did what he does, best placed in the race, behind best laid plans, alone on the street, alone in his craft, but he still keeps his peace, there's still life in these rags, torn and tattered by weather, hang lifeless and fray, he still keeps creating, whatever come what may, scorn does comply, with the weight of the world, by the blades of the weak, and the sneers of the small, of heart there's no equal, in rear view he's liquid, understood but rejected, mis-respected in the cold, oh! the aching bones, but there's hope in the fold, break ice but salve wound, if only you knew...
but you do, don't you?