MAD MAN, MAD MAN

He lay down on the walk way in rags, his uncut, unkempt hair clogged together in dirt, something amused his big bright eyes that lay wide open, not blinking, as though he saw spirits. His dry white lips didn't move, his hands formed a pillow on the concrete floor. His nostrils didn't twitch, neither was he irritated by the smell of the green garbage cart that lay in front of him. Onlookers walked past and I could hear the mouths of every heart call him 'The Mad Man' but we were all wrong! To the mad man, we are all mad; dressed in fine ironed suits, skirts, blouses and shirts, hurrying to work. Too afraid of our bosses, too concerned about our monthly stipends. With faces littered with scars of sacrificed passions, lost to jobs we took for money or to kill the common boredom of a societal unemployment. Like ants, we rush to our sugar coated jobs, we are all sick, thinks the mad man, who's too petrified by our delusions and illusions, too petrified that if he called us 'mad men' we would look and laugh, point and spit, shake our worried heads spitefully at him and call him 'Mad man, mad man'. - Melchizedek has spoken