He is the desolate drifter,
who hides from the storm that is Love;
whose temper and squall
has divided us all,
to depths we cannot rise above.
Where darkness masks his face
in alleys of shade,
he hides from the very mess he’s made.
They assume him illusion,
or merely glare- the passers by
who smile or feign laughter with their traveller,
because they cannot bear to watch him die.
He is a nameless character-
the faint resemblance of a man
who had a shot at love,
misfired, and killed his second chance.
No room for idiosyncrasy;
just a case of, “he’s a no one.”
Let him be.
Modelling the clothes of the homeless-
he’s a threat to society.
He yearns to talk to her.
But a ten pence piece will gain no time,
in a telephone box
graffitied with the aching, of a broken line.
Bronze trophy winner
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