John Doe

he was a man
of no particular significance
nor weight at the tip of his tongue in his words
he carried himself neither with his head held high
nor with his eyes examining the gum on the sidewalk
nor was he the man to take the stairs in several bounds
he would pause before words materialized in reality
because he knew they would scar and make people bleed
doubt twisted, a crown of thorns around his brow
chiseled three fine lines
and yet he was prone to extended periods of draughts
and certain bouts of entrenched doubts
he found it sometimes difficult to suffocate the writhing weariness
as he saw time elope and press on with the future
make love, make babies
while he was running away from animals
hoping he wouldn’t get rabies
he was drawn to another future
of robots, cyborgs, and lasers
and a brief eye-level love exchange
he was befuddled by the world he saw
of the dreary filmed days
of punctuated sunshine
of days of vapidity
of days of polarity
of days of clarity

he was a man
a boy
a son
he was me

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