Merchant of Dreams

There is nothing much to say.
He is the poorest man alive.
A pauper's grave awaits his demise.
He has nothing to sell,
No one to con.
The price was too high
And his product invariably
Went up in smoke.
We watch as he shuffles past:
Rags, skin and bone,
And we think to ourselves,
Times are hard mate,
And you should have known
In a land where virtue is sold
In exchange for some breadcrumbs
There is no market
For luxury commodities
Like dreams anymore.

© Sandisile Tshuma MMVI

Day Sleeper by Rory Adityawan