Modern Man

The wretched, cursed man,

bent and weeping,

Walking as if a monument

to sold out souls,

Turning, turning,

face side to side,

but no one sees him.

Still, he saunters,

freely meandering

through streets of

golden auras,

all the promises

well packaged lies.

Smelling flowers

as he travels,

for they told him

if he did so,

stopped,

and smelled them,

life would mean,

something,

anything at all.