The lines on his face were etched with Rum,
His eyes drooped down,
They were battered folds of red
And veined with the purple fist of poverty
He had a 24 hour vacant look about him it said – he was open to all offers
Scavenging for that one golden thread of hope that would save him from
This Abattoir of savage gloom
Sometimes he still strummed the notes on his shot gun guitar
His fingers like bloodied bananas fried in Ghee.
He was a shadow in his own land an exile of no worth
His army fatigues were clubbed with GLORY
But his smile was cut with cremated dreams.