He sits by himself, disheveled and pensive.
Alone with his coffee,
though the mug's been empty for about an hour.
So long, in fact, that the ceramic has been overcome by the cold.
He sits alone, looking through the present.
Dozens pass by, looking at him,
though no one sees
the loss of naivety in his eyes-
-eyes that used to sparkle with light,
now clear to perceive the absence.
The trail of smoke exiting the cigarette loosely held in his hand
floats upward, free from others;
he, gripped by the untethered chains of awareness,
is misunderstood on his bench, embraced only by nothing.
He sits alone, now with the light behind his eyes.
Unawarely accepting the judgements of the others,
he appears to aimlessly gaze
into the would-be;
though sitting, he's wandering,
if his becoming has already come.
He sits alone,
not because he is,
but because he isn't.
He isn't the facade he once was,
and he's aware of the the other's suffocating slavery.
Their eyes are still charmed to be blinded,
glistening on the outside with a naivety that will inevitably bleed away.
He hopes it bleeds away.
This sparkle deceives,
as it coats the perceived with both acceptance
-what is not of them will compromise their security.
The footsteps of busyness still haunt his ears.
He knows silence will always be
an opportunity for the dying naivety
to scream at him with one final breath.
But it's in facing those terrifying screams that he finds life.
In this silence he falls into the growth of life.
It is the daily exercise of dying.
He is free.
He is alive.
But he sits alone,
surrounded by the pitied stares
of pride's contempt,
praying for their sight.