A man sells flower all through the gloomy days.
Every flowers he gets from the wilderness of outspoken,
he sells them.
He is always almost drunk…he thinks he sells abstractness to bleeding people.
He has seen them all,
ones with sprouted loves…
ones sleeping with idyllic whores…
Ones falling in love with the dead relatives and expired wisdoms,
they are the truest one.
He gives away free flowers to people who he thinks are pretty…
All day he sells in his cart and he notices the shades of this crazy city.
Perhaps there’s still some hope left through the eyes of these beautiful beings.
He is surely beautiful and he is surely in the path of disappearance.
That closed brown door of him…remains closed all through the translucent and timid night…
Nobody knows how many times he has come close to self demolition,
nobody sees those rotten petals he has to carry every night to his damp stone walls.
Sometimes people doing the most sensational things are left with no sensations in their mortality…
and that’s madness, that’s a straight large whiskey,
that’s measurement of souls.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Jacin Buchanan.