Character influenced by Dallas Hunter
Story inspired by us all
His walk was staggered, and his limp was obvious. His shoes were ragged, while his laces ran free, bouncing from side to side with every heavy step he took throughout the cold evening city than ran pity amongst him. Looks of sorrow followed with looks of disgust. Looks of shun from head to toe, as a dirty beanie meant homeless to those who grabbed their kids to gain space from the man who had fallen into the cracks of life. October leaves dance around his feet on this windy cold day. His eyes closed as his beard tilted up, facing the cloudy murky sky with a pause from the long walk. His beard red, his eyebrows brown, his shirt dirty white, as the deep stretched out V-neck exposed the bruises on his chest, and the cuts on his neck. Pale white skin from a lack of sun.....pockets inside out for money is gone. His grey sweats that fit tight around the legs feel comfortable and warm on legs that dig deep in mud. Hair salon shops laugh, while kids out of a candy store play tag. Grocery carts rattle as business folks chatter. The sounds of laughing make his eyes drop low like his V. Memories of a time where life was smooth, an easy smile made a comfortable mood. Now a smile comes once a full moon, as the dark casts a light that leaves too soon. The city is alive while this man is dead. His sweats hang low and saggy around his waste from the absence of his drawstring that once tied tight and high, for now he must grab the front to keep them up and on.....a jail house walk while singing a jail house song. The red hair that covers his forearms cuts like a thorn, as his non-hydrated body pleads for water, only to be given coffee. One more cup of coffee and the body might fall. Dry up and cast a shadow amongst the concrete wall, leaning and breathing for life as others watch him fall. No one cares, for an outcast he is, a street bum that can't find his way in a maze of city streets, lost in a world of white sheep. Lost to be never found, addicted to drugs and robbery he must....for this man is the leach of the world and must....must be crushed.
Dry blood sleeps upon his knuckles of white, finding a home where consistency lives...makes even blood sleep tight. His long red beard dry and tangled, matted and fragile. High to his eyes and low on his neck, his beard is a mask that hides who he was, barring the boy he has left behind. The beard is a warrior's cape that represents independence. The beard is an expression of man hood, fight hood, a new path hood. A drop the boy off and grow a pair hood. His beard is a shield of fire that keeps white sheep away from its heat and mass, strength and power, a V-neck of dirty sweat mixed with bloody knuckles that string painfully in the shower. His bold beard that screams for water keeps the city street herd away.....as he gets close to his destination from the far away place he started.
His masterful beard looks more beat up than him, but what some don't see is the strength within...under what the skin hides....some don't see, that the inside is where the beard grows, starts, and blossoms. The roots of where we started is where our strength is born. Forgetting our past and what lies beneath... is the down fall of so many that now lay dead in these city streets. His legs might be weak on the outside, but strong like bull beneath. This broke homeless looking bum keeps walking....one step at a time. Every step counts, no matter how he truly feels. The devil in a red dress awaits with open arms around each turn, as a young lady working at a bank firm firmly grabs his hand giving him a chance with change....to them he is weak.....weak and wounded......
The red bearded man of an awful smell and lips of dry, stumbles into the gym with a limp of pride. He slaps the hands of many as home he is......he grabs the bar with knuckles of pain....for it is time for weightlifting practice......once again.