They saw him,
the one that somehow,
has the power to magnify
pupils to judge,
magnetize fingers to point,
hypnotize laughter to echo
from every
and be his passenger
on this cold bench,
that buses his thoughts
to escape routes
he’s still looking for.

On rare occasions,
he finds sugar in the sand
falling from the eyes of a child,
a coinage of empathy to savor
between the denim and lint,
and the piece of mind
he swears to voice
to the next listening soul
if one ever existed.

He swears to pray
to the next omnipotent
if the skies weren’t vacant;
he desires to whisper:
“Remain forever human,”
if he could just
laugh off the irony
of being mute.

We saw him,
slouched posture
and broken contour;
he was a dark room,
with negative prints
of his ethnic background
hung in the noose of his subconscious.
On an airbrushed afternoon
he felt threatened,
that every memory he possessed
would be exposed
in the twilight,
lost before he’d be willing to share
the only thing he considers
his own,
the reason as to why
he has these scars.

So now
he’s freeze tagging
everything that moves,
hoping they’ll remain
right where he left them;
motionless and waiting,
concrete as the gazes
that pave him,
and as invisible
as his essence.

For the first time
I saw him,
not for the man he was
or will be
but in the right now:
the defaced of humanity,
the victim of verbal vandalism
an imprisoned prism
never met with a ray of hope
so his favorite color
is the absence of it.

He’s the scratched,
graffitied soul
inked and blotched
to the bench he sits,
aerosolized into a cliché
the world
will never miss.

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