He roams around streets, his clothes patched and torn at places with breached skin peaking through it.
Spreading his hands infront of everyone, expect for the the one above, for the faith he had, poofed in thin air due to the things he went through.
His hair grungy and dishevelled.
His face masked with filth as he wanders begging for just a dime to feed his stomach.
At night, he goes to that torn stall he calls home. Just a square foot plastic sheet supported by four batons, saving him from the catastrophes thrown his way.
Can't remember who is his and who isn't, for all he has is the few pennies he collected through the day.
He doesn't have enough for anyone else.
Often falls into solitude but doesn't do much about it. He knows if he raises his hand to ask from the one beyond galaxies, he may remain unanswered.
Tears stroll down his cheeks every night. It's a good thing tears are colorless or when he wakes up every morning, his stained shirt would indicate his weakness.
Body, strong. Mind, weak. Soul, strong. Heart, broken.
Blood, drugged.
He knows no one. So when he falls sick, there's no one to nestle him as he just lays down, cries in pain, his head burns like fumes but he's still alone.
One night when he feels on the verge, he lets it go. Doesn't stop his tears, can't stop them.
When sunrays break the dawn, just like every morning. There lays a man, loose limbed, eyes shut...
Heart? Stopped. Breath? Not even a single hitch.
And that's how he dies in solitude,
for when he used to see
other people happy,
families celebrating,
lovers loving.
He was just a mere silhouette
who admired from afar and envied, never prayed.
~M.Z
