Man without a face

He was tall and pale. Unnoticable.

Blending in with the white wall.

His steps made no sound, no stories.

He had no shawdows to hold in thrall.

He had no dirt on his shirt

Or on his concield spirit

His fists never clanched in fire.

Nor traits of hurt or desire.

The man without the face

Sat down, silently, infront of me.

Had no words to form, his breath was dry

I felt frozen, yet squeezed a smile.

How are you? I asked, but knew it’s pointless.

This man is no more, from the inside out.

Breathing frame only, that expired

Under the weight of his final bout.

We sat there, what seemed life forever

in the nurturing embrace of still.

Surrandering to the pain of nothing

snakelike motion, drowning chill.

Our time is stale and tasteless

And yet, somewhere inside my gut.

My wisdom is guiding me to stay

For a glimps of life or a vein to be cut.

Like an abrupt haertbeat on a straight line

a vague wrinkle formed next to his mouth

Hello you! Welcoming him,careful and shy.

The man with the wrinkle, a tear in his eye.

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