Conforming To The Life On The City Streets. Poem by Ace Of Black Hearts

A gruff old man with his thumb out.
Walk the dusty trail.
In debt to no one.
The land is his playground.
No one location that special or that important.
Migration, to where he sees fit.
Where his feet can carry him.
A war vet in a past life.
Personal possessions are only what he can carry on his back.
No dependence on anyone specifically.
Help and handouts along the way.
Fortunes of the gray.
Pitied because they have less.
But sometimes they are happy with it.
You'll find peace not not by being rich but having happiness.
It beyond some people imagination why he chooses that way.
Comfort in not being in debt to anyone.
Comfort only having what he needs nothing more, nothing less.
Living by a campfire almost everyday and night.
Answering to no one except god and himself.
Working for who he wants, when he wants.
A choice, in given work that is temporary most of the time anyways.
Instead of losing it in a year or two, he moves on in a month.
A traveler, a drifter.
When he returns, he will have new stories to tell.
Living it the hardest way.
But no one even knows his name.
He is avoided when comes into town.
Society has no place for a survivalist.
Someone who respects the land and ecology.
Someone non violent and all about peace and love.
There a dying breed.
The hippies of seventies.
Today they are just not the same.
Too many drugs, too many laws.
Hook and book'em.
Thrown in the city jail.
Rehabilitation means to teach you how to be a criminal.
How to best rip off another human being.
Prisons are a problem not the solution.
Maybe if we leave this man be, leave his dignity intacted we would be better off.