The Paper Man

He walks down the streets in a tattered old jacket,
Swinging his goods to house after house.
The people don’t see him; he’s invisible to their eyes.
Their egos are brainwashed as they sit on the couch.
He quietly patters the streets in old jeans,
Bringing them news of the world of high dreams.
His goods are common, yet many take often.
His clothes are tattered, pulling apart at the seams.
He sees a bird fly over the trees
And watches a leaf tumbled over by the wind.
He sighs in contentment, for nature is right.
It’s the little things of peace that give true delight.
His goods are common, and thus pay very little,
But money isn’t what he wants after all.
These things that clutter put many in the gutter.
But when content on the ground, there’s not far to fall.
He has many memories; in that sense he is rich.
Others gather in goods that won’t be remembered,
Things that corrode and darken in the ditch.
His possessions are endless- the feelings they render.
And so as the world hastens past, in search of false dreams,
He gathers his treasures, in quiet content.
And though it’s not long ‘till on a staff he will lean,
His smile- his happiness- for others also was it meant…