Brain Injured Fuck
A ghost of himself walking,
able to touch, to smell, to see,
to experience life, sensually.
This cheapens the life, teases
the mind. If only a little more or
perhaps a bit less…no questions
asked, no assumptions made.
A lukewarm hell, a glimpse of life,
an experience cheapened by
the vicarious means with which
it is seen. Knowing is what is more.
A poet he is and has become
A watcher, a purveyor of truths
denied. So fitting to be alone.
Hitchhiker 