I know a strange man

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I know a man, I see him everyday,
I know he won't be here to stay,
He tells me he is an explorer,
But I don't see him out that much,
Not even in a very fine day.

I walk the streets all alone,
With only my shadow walking with me,
That too is a compulsion,
If it could it would leave me.

I look around and see none,
No one to stand beside me.

The man he says is always there with me,
But I really do not see me.

I meet him daily,
But I could never make out who he meant to me.
For I could not understand him,
Not even a bit fairly.

You may know strange,
But he is stranger still,
He smiles as he weeps,
And never does he heaves,
He likes the breeze on his face,
And that matters to him dearly,
He like the way nature work,
He likes it very slowly.

Yet he hates the winds,
And he hates the chills,
He hates things that ain't fast,
Yet he likes the hills.

He loves the morning art,
He likes it when it's fresh,
He likes doing things very carefully,
And he likes it when he does it well.

But again he hates the morning sun,
As he never did sleep well,
He writes with all the haste,
And does not check it carefully,
He sits in his chair,
Types in what ever comes to his ear,
As the voices in his head speak,
He just simply follows their keep.

He loves to make her smile,
But when she laughs he feels empty inside,
I have no idea what he is,
Never did understand him,
Even in his moment of bliss,
I look at him staring,
He does the same,
I look at him daring,
He does so the same.

I call out to him,
I try to make him understand,
Oh! But I know he does,
It's just that it never did took it in hand.

He seems to see the world in a different light,
And he thinks that is strange,
How mad he thinks the world is,
And in return they do the same.

He never wants to be mean,
It's just that he is keen.
He likes it when people smile around him,
But he dislikes the way they laugh,
Oh! Don't get me wrong,
It the mocks that he hates,
Not the innocent joy that he creates.

His life seems heavy,
Heavier still the heart,
And so he had given it gladly,
As she promised never to let it part.

He can understand her,
As much as he understands himself.
Which I say is not much,
But he tries to do it well.

The world to him is confusing,
His lover even more.

He wants to keep her warm,
But how shall he do that if he is cold?

The dread he carries is too heavy for a man,
But he doesn't care,
For he has a plan real grand.
He shall make it work,
Even if he loses his hand.

He loves the smell of the morning winds,
But he detests them too,
He is complicated,
Far more than me and you.

He does it not like pretenders out there,
He does it for he is like that,
His childhood was never good,
But he wants his adult to be better.

He despises childeren,
For they remind him of him,
When he was younger,
Far less bolder,
And a huge boulder placed on his shoulder,
No mother to help him,
And the father wouldn't bother,
Never practical only other,
His father's teachings,
Most were meant for the gutter.

You know him not,
So do I.
As I slowly stare at him,
Through the mirror straight in the eye.

The Dead Revolutionary

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