The Man Who Walks Alone

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The Man Who Walks Alone
(A soul without a home, crushed by debt, haunted by thoughts)

The lender turned his back in silence,
No more kindness in his eyes—
Just calculations,
And numbers growing cold in a ledger of shame.
Once trusted, now avoided,
He stands alone as debts whisper behind every glance.

No home. No income.
Works like a beast of burden,
While elephant-sized debts crush his spine.
Even breath feels borrowed.
Rent unpaid, he watches his landlord’s eyes
Grow colder,
Each stare a reminder he doesn't belong.

The shopkeeper once kind,
Now counts each spoon and plate
As part of what he owes.
The notebook grows heavy
With unpaid totals,
And the weight of being unwanted.

Yet he walks.
Among the prideful beggars,
On cracked streets,
With torn clothes flapping like forgotten flags.
He begs not for money—
But for a look, a word, a little dignity.

His pride clings to him like his shadow—
Fading, yet never gone.
He smiles when shamed,
Laughs in the face of hunger,
Because inside him,
There’s a flame the world can’t touch.

But the worst battles are within.
Thoughts swirl like storms,
Looping, spiraling, dragging him deeper.
His mind—
A prison of what-ifs and never-weres.
Even silence screams,
And sleep is a battlefield.

People pass by,
Not seeing the war behind his eyes.
They see the dirt, the beard, the bags—
Not the broken memories,
Not the quiet endurance.

Still, he stands.
He walks.
He dreams.
Because even in ruin,
There is still a man.
And his pride, bruised but burning,
Walks beside him.

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