when I really search myself, it feels like I'm coming home (by Melinda)

Is it possible that a man—
cleaning the floor and dancing his pain
dressed in rag and submission
day by day timidly beckoning
those outside
rushing their wallets
up to the market
of their black-lie flights…
This man—
lost and promising
no variety of dress or ideas
solitaire in path of agony
with a dashing appearance
or whatever to the eyes of others
who parcel him out with care…
He, this deserted man—
with nothing to show
nor houses, nor lands
no fingertips in the end of his joust
covered with water
from his sorrowful overdue
no testament formally signed
as no bequeath to devise
and no one who cares…
This stranger—
in a world of strangers
and their blatant frauds
he, all by himself
no whim, a bad loan
bad manners learned every muggy trip
bound for downtown
and back to environs
the place he owns
without satisfaction
trembling voice, a faith in his hands
none but an ordinary person
who cleans the floor
keeping his comfortable position
in the dark
the only one up to him
when dawn breaks for him in hard…
That long-suffering peregrine—
with his long account to settle
living high upon a cliff
and falling prey to the ruin
he fit in with
planning and crying and moving his hands
frantically towards that filth
made by everyone who gets into
and out of the house
ignoring his presence
and leaving his forecast undone.
Does this man—
everyday-life losing esteem
by a rule of thumb
he has been told within
— have the same value
of a titled-triumphant acquirer vast?


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