There he stands, hunched over in a gray jacket.
Like some sort of fallen god.
A silent prophet,
humble king.
Why do you hide your hands away?
You look like a hungry painter
to the untrained eye.
But I know beauty when it finds me.
I'm busy trying to turn fluorescent lights
into poetic stripes,
not listening for the sound
of a voice that carries so much.
His words will knock me down
and leave me breathless on the floor.
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