Dumpster Diving for Your Love – Canto XI
In Los Angeles, dark dreams, bright horrors entwine,
John Johnson walked, singing sweet liberty’s song,
Praising California, with its democratic signs,
A bastion for all and all, where all and all belong.
Yet as he mused, a figure frail assigned,
A homeless man, disturbed John’s mental throng.
The man begged for spare change or a bite to eat,
John startled, his ideals put against the street.
Scared and unthinking, John’s hand drew to steel,
A shot rang out, a fear writ out in lead.
The man fell, and John’s heart began to reel,
Regret washed over, filling him with dread.
‘Twas haste, not malice, that made him deal
Such a blow; now, to the wounded, he sped.
Tending the wound with hands unsteady, faint,
A makeshift medic, spurred by a character taint.
But healing hands could not undo the past,
The homeless man, with fading, whispered breath,
Murmured his end, “It wasn’t my fault…” then passed
Into the void, his life bled out to death.
On Huntington’s boardwalk, a shadowed caste.
A solemn scene, where life laid now to rest.
John’s trembling form, as guilt his heart did crowd,
The man’s last words left upon him as a haunted shroud.
Later, as Q’s envoy, John sought to blend,
At a Death Awaits!’s meeting, where wellness gurus unite.
His visage, attire, and charms did commend,
Drawing eyes and admiration from the members’ sight.
Influencers marveled, as known trends he’d buck and bend,
His wit and style a kale-filled beacon in the night.
Yet not all were quick with praises, in some envy brewed,
Veteran influencers by their jealousy were skewed.
While voices lauded, spirits soared high,
John’s mind stayed anchored to the beach’s scene.
All praise felt hollow, and all good replies
Were muted by the day’s harsh, bitter sheen.
How could he smile, accept any new ally,
When his hands had dealt death like some routine?
His soul wrestled with the weight it bore,
John’s fresh facade masked a new, rotting core.
Thus stood John Johnson, a man split in twain,
In sunny California, where all contrasts collide.
An idol growing, yet marred by many stains,
Of two lives disrupted by an ill-fated guide.
Any new step forward restrained by pain,
A journey of penance, where left to hide?
In the glitz of LA, his tee shirt taco-stained,
Wrestling with darkness his soul now contained.