The Pedestrian

His madness is self-evident
And arguments are weak,
His step is soft and figure - bent,
An ordinary freak;

He wanders quietly through the night
When desolate are the streets;
His lips are tightened, shadow - bright
His thoughts are incomplete;

He was a writer long ago,
When books were in the know ,
But now they’re over, obsolete,
Light ash, like perfect snow;

But he’s unable to forget
The ecstasy of freedom,
The uttered joy and wordy mess,
The melody of reading;

And true he is to loony tunes
That are his own delusion,
And here he is - a lonesome prince,
In search of absolution;

Sometimes he changes dusty routes,
But one thing is the same,
Like ghosts are winds on dirty streets,
The writer lacks the aim;

The twists of plot surround him
Like leaves that humbly rustle,
And his impressions are within
His conscious mind’s castle;

One nasty, grey November hour
He walked, lost in his dream,
When the police, simple and dour,
Came and arrested him;

They asked him,
If he had an aim,
And if he professions;
And added that he was to blame,
For being so irrational;

He was conducted to the car,
And then to the asylum,
Forever speechless, like a star,
That stumbled on the doom...

The story with the same name by Ray Bradbury prompted this poem.