The Deadbeat
Time is not geared to human life
Nor to obeying orders
Of human nature
Emptiness surrounds him
He spends days without opening his lips
Breath makes the only sound
His head is over weight
Loneliness feeds him a lot
He hasn't lost that yet; devising ways
To spend his insufficiency
He can't hold a woman
With torn hands
Experiences are spectacular
And short lived
Concluding finally
In separate corners
He is tender to strangers
Says something and ends up
Meaning something else
At times he's just plain mischevous
He has no necessity to rule himself
Making promises
He can never keep
Humiliated by his own idleness
He waits for nights to crawl in
To spend up his whole void
He must leave no residue of doubt
He is master
Of his own inclinations
This amuses the sparrows
This amuses the sparrows
And other birds
That sing foreign songs
To see him destroy himself.
