A life of a stranger.

Untouched.

Beside those lone walls, sits an admirer,

Not bounded by the definitions of the good or the bad.

Judging the complexity of sarcasms,

Be it vague, not sad.

Those scars depict a journey,

Where patience and bravery do not exist,

A long wait for mortality of the dead dreams,

Ask the one who heard those silent screams.

Beautiful it is, even the emptiness of the sky,

As curious as a shadow,

It’s dark, still eager to fly.

With a blank smile and raw emotion,

Seeking lost hopes and imagined belief.

It’s being dead, still living the bygone passion.

Might be an irony; he is no ranger, 

But it is, “the life of a stranger.”