In sleep, he falls into a pit of false emotions,
Complete with realistic pain and trauma.
Saved only by the emerging light of dawn,
Dressed in shreds of upheaved disarray.

He rambles furtively through tracts of contained civic refuse,
Searching for the merest evidence of dated leavings.
Surviving on his instinct, the cares of no one,
And a heart filled with the lost echoes of time.

He donates his rich supply of bitter comments on passers-by,
Knowing the tragedy of life as one who has felt it.
His day is plundered by a multitude of empty gestures,
And ends with a single crystallized tear of loneliness.

He drags himself to an obscure recess for the night,
Holding dear to what possessions he might carry.
Fostering no illusions about tomorrow,
He realizes it will be, at best, a copy of the past.

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