Every morning, the sun bears witness to his rising,
The moon oversees his sleeping, this man I know,
This man we all may know.
His hours, closely guarded, are his alone now,
As are the unwritten rules he lives by.
The gates of his domain swing wide open
To those rare, lustrous souls
Whose worn, battered soles, unashamedly exposed to scrutiny,
Reveal the roads they walk.
He knows their destination,
For their’s is his, and
His is everyman’s.
Ignorant of convention, damning all torpedoes,
Whoever he loves, he loves deeply.
Though many who meet him hear only the clash of swords within him,
Only the bravest of them,
Their hearts having crossed the threshold of the house of love,
Seek to pierce his tender armour.
They alone have eyes to see the gaping, ill-formed holes there,
Whose origins reach far into the battles of an unfathomable past.
They know that what he tastes, what he smells, what he feels and thinks and touches
Belongs also to them.
And to everyman.