He makes his daily rounds,

dragging sacks and bags

containing whatever he found --

empty bottles, papers, rags.

 

his eyes are always sad,

hands clasped, raised in prayer.

children torment him if they're bad;

the good ones pretend he's not there.

 

like him, we pass each day

gathering our things,

not realizing what they weigh.

the false self stubbornly clings

 

to its identity.

as if in a trance,

the soul lives in captivity,

blind to its own existence.

~Broken Wings~