Who Is He

He walks among the masses along nameless streets

Who he is or where he comes from is of little note

For the work day march is on and the focus is constrained

Commuter drones massing and circling in cauldrons of urban bane

 

He runs down thru the rivers of concrete away from the purple rain

The wall of tall buildings with glass that mirror the twisted reflections

Of the long shadows dragging behind him with its many faces

Masks with the happy paints, masks of sad lines and masks with awful scars

 

The clock strikes five and the workers swarm back into the trains with bars

As they race upon rails of iron with little chance to detach 

 For the night approaches and they must be inside their dream houses

While he flees to hide under the streets inside a dirty cardboard box

 

The nightmares still awaiting him to succumb to sleep’s pox

The fires burn and the sirens blare – someone else needs a medic

The screams are tragically operatic; a black musical

As the unfathomable din overwhelms the senses and the brain falls numb

 

She awakens him with a gentle touch saying, “Wake up - the day has come”

The room is awash in white light, the red stains are gone and so are the trains

He rises from the slum and slowly returns to his dream life

Not knowing who he was; nor why he sees that he is quite insane