he could do things no better, and no worse.
he had dreams of the impossible,
but reality was some harsh place.
the memory plagued his existence,
more than the scars on his face.
he was alone,
just as he has always been.
he is incurably idealistic:
wanting to change the world,
wanting to fall in love,
hoping things will eventually be okay.
but everything will not be alright.
life is merciless - we fall over and over again,
only so that life can laugh at us all the time.
but in that mockery we must find comfort -
as long as we dont laugh at ourselves,
there is hope yet.
hope for a little redemption,
a little respite to quell the frightened minds.
he was just a face in the crowd.
for awhile, he had a name.
but one in a million is all he's got,
the only chance at a life he would never else know.
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