Between old crevices in the walls,
His story grew.
Beneath the scribbles are the syllables
His eyes pursue
Tasteless and yet lingers like mint
His aura has a refreshing tint
The Rubik cube, his approach to life
An opaque wall he does thrive
He’s a puzzle, brainteaser, a maze
Relates life stories in a single gaze
Sure he’s a kleptomaniac, its true
Shoplifting all of the gestures’ clue
Discerning from a corner he steals
From the anonymous, what it feels
Can read minds, read between the lines
Puts together little things and refines
A little subtle, shy and saint
Petite mischief, slightly insolent
Guises are as though he’s distracted
Focus conversely, is hefty instead
Stone cold, an impression he defines
Melting on the core are those eyes.