The Desert Man

The Desert Man

The Desert Man sits in his arid haze,
Staring at the sun,
While dark-lined accusations
Skate across him,
Barely scratching,
Wounds closing even as he watches,
Sealed by the heat of an inner fire,
Fuelled by the words of a friendly liar,
Whispering like thunder,
So no-one else can hear
As they drift
Past him, through him,
Looking but never seeing,
Casting bolts of ignorant assumption
From bows strung with ego
While he waits
On a streetlit corner of his mind,
Calling to the masses,
Delivering tracts on Stoicism
With the silent, knowing vigour of the dead.