This man sat on a bench,
a newspaper in his hand.
His dirty trousers and stained living
Drawing smirks, and jeers and stares.
But oblivious to it all,
He sat with his legs crossed
And played a part,
Like that of a man
With a map in his hand,
Who knew where he was going,
And where he would end.
He scanned each section
Of the news in his hand
But what’s personal.
Why look for love
When it’s a myth made real
To counter life,
A diatribe in motion.
His ripped shoes
And sagging form
Was life countering love,
Which counters God,
Since God is Love
And holds life in His hands.
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