Who loves a struggling man uncertain of his place. A doubting prophet or a bankrupt sage. Bereft of friends who wanders on alone.
All men are strangers in his eyes. Rushing through, it seems, their busy lives, their glance is cursory at best. No time for him, they hurry to their desk.
The doubt within him shreds him like a blade. The noise it makes leaves no room for peace as unremarked he struggles on alone. No destination but praying for release. The place were vacuum reigns, beyond the range of hope.
Such men as this are found on many streets, huddled in rags or blankets if they can.
What lifts a soul so buried in this place, forgotten by fortune or plan for some release. Victims of chance, disaster or a thirst. Who looks at him and sees some common thread. Some cause for hope that he might rouse himself, rebuild a life and some how start anew.
Sometimes as I walk through the streets, I chance on men like this and wonder why, I am still walking and going on my way while he lies there detached from those around. But if they look up, sometimes I see a light. Somewhere in there I see my brothers eyes.