He would ride bikes to dead-end streets.
Bikes... under clandestine light.
He rarely looked up and when he did, nobody ever noticed.
Limited and suffocating space for him. He always made sure.
Hiding in chaos, safer when the air got dense.
My crazy neighbour with a torch on his head.
What is he doing? I don’t even think he knows himself.
Tyres and microwaves. Clutter that weighted so much, the human heart couldn’t handle any more beats.
But what if the world was wrapping up. And only the brave, the ones with aluminium masks and forts made out of rubber survived.
But what if we didn’t, but he knew?
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Author:
Ani. Is. (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 12th, 2023 11:17
- Comment from author about the poem: My neighbour was a hoarder. His whole garden was full of things we would take on his bike during his night trips. He was peculiar and he had a heart attack last night. The police took his body away and the whole street was left feeling uneasy. I would occasionally say a few words to him. And I always wonder oh so many things. How little I knew of him inspired me to write him a little tribute. May you rest in peace. To all of the people that are misunderstood for seeing the world in a different colour.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 22
- Users favorite of this poem: Ashleyakalb, L. B. Mek, Bobby O.
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Comments4
You can never judge a book by its cover because the story can be so much deeper on the inside. This is beautiful and very non selfless.
You are so right, human’s depth is so mesmerising. Thank you as well 💜
You know what, some people have their own unique philosophy while living among us, we may not notice their existence .. yet when they gone, that vacuum feelings encase our hearts.
I like the way you put it. There are still philosophers amongst us. 💜
(may he rest in peace..)
beautiful characterisation
showcasing your inking's practised skill
and I love the humanity in your message
thanks for sharing, dear poet
Thank you for passing by your words mean a lot 💜
A descriptive trip describing a known syndrome , not w sympathy or chagrin , but rather, a glimmer of hope , of tactile, unexpected I’m guessing to him, dignity that can be grasped
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