Means to an end

With old patterns faltering in the wake of time, serving him less and less; desperation creeps, then slowly sets in. Searching for something real to cling to; in a world of illusion and cheap parlor tricks; of which he created and has always dwelled. Better to be an imaginary somebody, than a real no body;

Empty vessel

He stole away Under the cloak Of darkness Backpack thrown Carelessly Over weary hunched Shoulders Filled with Unsuspecting souls Carelessly collected Over nowhere Miles Casting shadows Of doubt Calling it love Leaving a trail Of broken bits Wherever he goes © jillterry