John Doe

January 25, 2009
While ambling through the sands of time
A doeful sight I chance did find.
Beached ashore there was a man
With his face against the sand.
I turned him over just to see
The cortex of his identity.
But his cheeks were mottled gray,
And his mouth drooped down like melted clay.
Murky film over an empty stare,
And greasy tar dripped down his hair.
Wrinkled skin peeled from his height,
To untuck bones Apollo bleached white.
I clothed his flesh with clothes my own.
Though his handsomeness I condoned.
For him I dug a resting hole,
Dropped him in and blessed his soul,
Then continued on, although
I left a part of me with John Doe.

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