I'm a scavenger in the shadows of your trail. Browsing through the leftovers of your indifferent existence, for all your littered plastic emotions carelessly spilt. Picking the hollow cans of your polished promises, and nibbling on the extra hope cast away from your greedy heart. It's a lot of broken souvenirs and sand from all the hearts you've been to. I gather these bruised remains. I hear there's a way to recycle the past, at the corner of the street. Poor man does it for free: make the world beautiful again from the dirt. What's his name? Oh yea! They call him the Poet. Scavenger
