As I walk past brick street, I behold a man who was clothed in rags holding a stick for support and prop. In his mouth was a chewing stick for cleaning the teeth and gnashing at sorrows. A pouch slung at its sides. Even with an unkempt beard, his grin and wrinkled face strained of joy and strength. He stands present but lost somewhere in between with a ragged cape over his shoulder.
He was listening to the thoughts in his head, his eyes were piercingly observing the environment maybe to beg or to seek.
As I gaze at him, I saw a man who was tired but prepared to face the wind and weather.
He wasn't confused but calculating of the next move. His looks were poor but his heart and mind was rich so he kept a stick and a pouch for support. That was hope and love for his self.
He was not dressed prepared for the world but he was prepared for that moment in his phase of life.
He didn't have it all figured out but he had to show up anyway.
It is because he showed up that's why I could see him and tell him that he is not alone.
This man was called phase broker by people.
Little did they know that a phase doesn't mean the whole being is broken.
The tables could turn... the stick can build and the clothes can be fixed.
Then a day comes where Mr. phase broker becomes a man of grace and wealth.
Everyone rushes to hang out with him but he remembers the days he stayed around yet alone because he was broke.
Yes the phase was broken but his memories could not be erased.
