(1950 / )

The Waxen Jesus

Behind shut windows,
To the wetting November rains,
Thunder roars into the hearts,
Of shoppers unpacking baggage;
The wreaths, the tinsels, the bells,
The baubles, the little waxen Jesus;
Whose rosy cheeks blush,
At a world alive with the enthusiasm;
Of children's eyes to delight

The raindrops sound,
On the outside they lave,
The homeless wanderer,
Whose feet pairs the dust,
And the splatter made to muddy,
His undaunted paths of madness;
Nonchalant, of sizzling sun,
Or pregnant obscure cumulus,

His pangs of hunger fossilized into,
An existence of without;
Which feeds his journey of,
Peripheral belonging;
A place, much like the raindrops,
Rolling off the eaves outside,
Those closed windows

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Comments (1)

Dang its beautiful. It creates a wild imagery...