Clive

Clive walks where the shadows lean�" in backstreets stitched with nicotine, a pocket full of half-spent dreams, and silence bursting at the seams.

He speaks in coughs and crooked tones, feeds stray dogs and talks to stones. His shoes are tired. His eyes don’t blink. He smells like turpentine and ink.

At noon he hums forgotten songs and rights the universe's wrongs�" or so he says, with that old grin that's mostly tooth and mostly sin.

No friends to call, no debts to pay, just Clive and time and ashtrays grey. And though the town forgot his name, the crows still circle just the same.

He once was bright, or so we're told, before the fire, before the cold�" before he slipped beneath the floor and locked the cellar with no door.

So raise a glass to men like Clive, the half-alive, the still-alive�" who hold the dark like it’s a bride and let the rest walk safe outside.