A Painted Man

by davidchrzanowskipoetry

No one travels as far as he. Smelling sights through forests of hair, he feels the thirsty blood, as girls become their own masters in life. The weather changing so often it blurs the edges of seasons. The hours spent sitting, never moving and famous for it, upon the steps behind the concert hall. Joining the dots in his mind; his hearing out of range. Journeys take shape on the edges of notes played by unknown artists. A living statue, a painted man, tending daily to his vantage point. He sees the same faces, dubbing his own laughter, hushed senses frame his portrait. His hearing still, no truer calling could suit his traits. Musician, teacher, soldier; no order of necessity. Saved by the peace brought by disability. The days spent peering into the phenakistoscope were endless. This city lacking in multicultural status, however, if he could hear the voices of the people he so faithfully watched, he knew their accents would differ, even if the words were the same. Silence. Then the orders burst from the radio, his ears restored, the shooting begins. The sniper’s vantage point tended, he retires from another mission.

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