Hobo
Think on life’s philosopher
out in the dark, alone in the cold
their home a veil of stars
the wailing night a suit on their back
Material comforts
exist free of sublime thought
when humanity is unleavened
by suffering and sharing
Nothing is perfect, each thing has its flaw
no clear path to purity or saintliness
exists in diamonds or men
pursued or persecuted arbitrarily
High on the mountain the voice in the wind
speaks without mouth, toils without effort
the relationship of things to nothings
is constantly established
Who controls our destinies but us?
I think of the hobo alone in the night
golf courses and luxury may lie nearby
but beatitude lies nearer in the heart
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