A mentalist

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.


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