Wildman

The Wildman Left the mountains In search of love and wonder, Not in any particular order. Now, he patrols the borders of a gas station, hooked on fuel. Shadows act like Mother, stretching out protection from judgemental eyes. The attendants berate and moan his missteps with fatherly abandon. Our champion is not alone though. His brethren, the rats have his back. The Wildman Left the mountains In search of love and wonder, Not in any particular order. Now, he patrols the borders of a gas station, hooked on fuel. Shadows act like Mother, stretching out protection from judgemental eyes. The attendants berate and moan his missteps with fatherly abandon. Our champion is not alone though. His brethen, the rats have his back. Like clockwork, he slinks out of the darkness, piece of his tattered rags in hand. Backs turned, soaks up the spoilage. Evades capture with cheetah spirit. Embryo warmth ensues post huff. For but an instance, Stillness marinates his neurons. All to quick, A marionettist's touch with weasel cunning, pulls him to his feet. He paints the constellations in the morning light... He used up his last piece of cloth, a few hour ago. He stares down a truck, with the ammo of ball bearing irises snarling at invisible sprits with evil intentions, all the while, his bulbous protea is covered with lice-ridden tangled thicket, and rabbit droppings blanket the tarmac. Good morning Vietnam.