Myth of a Man

No one ever remembered him being born,
He was just there one day; a rose seeking his thorn,
No purpose was he seeking; no god was in his call,
As lonely as a full moon as perfect as the fall.
There is nowhere to be lost but here in this life field,
Time is the stone of any fortress you can build, Driven by the weather of
hunger and hot blood, Forecast in the silent bloom of this cold bud,
This mystery cannot even fathom its own heartbeat,
Stares into the blank logic blur; when two ghosts meet,
Trimmed in this transitory and humbling-bulk-frame,
Defined by parameters of absolute end game.
When a man is gone.
There is no truth; his eyes had no color,
He’s a bucket of stars; he died of killer instincts, He once killed a lover
with his embrace,
He disappeared for eleven years one time; to this day we still don’t know where,
When he came home from the war he had a god for breakfast,
He had four hundred babies; every one of them were fathers,
He built a house in one night and moved out the next morning,
He breeds in the memory of mankind.