He is glorious.

Confidently, almost

Cockily,

He struts down the aisles of the old town Library,

Sepia tones of

Grey and red,

Contrasting against the colourful magnificence of

Hours and hours of literature and

Frustration.

XxX

He is superb.

Loose skin,

Excess fat,

Greasy hair,

All swaying and

Ruffling,

In the influence of hobbled steps.

XxX

He is stunning.

Pockmarked and

Angry,

Red, white and

Black toned complexion,

Glistening and shimmering and

Dancing,

In the summer light.

XxX

He is striking.

Surveying the shyly

Fonted educated and

Impassionate,

Words of scientists past,

An escape to the known.

He runs a dark,

Swollen

Tongue over fat and

Parched lips,

Cracked by neglect.

XxX

He is remarkable.

Sniffling and

Snorting,

Sunk deep into the

Mucus

Depths of an infinite cold,

He turns a page then,

Distractedly,

Smears a bloated, calloused hand

Across a disproportionate,

Maroon nose

Hand coming back gleaming,

Wet.

A problem easily solved by a swift wipe across loose trousers.

XxX

He is magnificent.

Sturdily he steps,

Out,

Into the scorching sunlight.

Uncomfortably,

He walks,

Bag bouncing,

Thighs chafing,

Idle but

Persistent beads of sweat,

Dripping and

Drizzling down,

Over,

Around, the bumps and

Creases

And craters of his face,

Gathering in the folds and

Depths of his body.

Clinging to the loose material of his clothing.

XxX

He is dazzling.

Slowly,

Gradually,

He stops in the gentle shade of ancient,

Wise,

Trees.

Bathing in their asylum,

In their shadows.

Slowly,

Gradually,

He raises his gaze from the

Safe

Confines of the ruffled grass,

Up,

Up,

Towards the softly flowing leaves,

Hiding the harsh,

Revealing sunlight.

Silently,

He is thankful.

He knows that he is,

Wrong,

Unfitting,

In this harsh world of beauty.

Yet he knows,

Here,

Amidst the light, sinuous branches,

He is accepted.

He is beautiful.