They say he's a ghost, a
specter of another time, haunting the
dull, crowded streets,
buildings with dusty, broken windows,
sad wasted people.
He must be, they insist:
what living man could stalk though shadows like a wraith
and disappear just as quickly?
Others will scoff:
he lives, or
he lived, at any rate.
They will still remember when he returned to them,
crashing through the tired streets like thunder.
He was dangerous then, but at least
he was human. Now,
he's still dangerous
and that's all there is to him.
When he first came,
he was sad and angry.
Now, he's just angry. If he is a spirit,
there is no soul left to him,
only the husk of humanity,
dry as the faded newspaper
that blows restlessly in the
desperate streets.
