They carry the world within the confines of their knapsack.

Huddled within layers of sweaters,    sweaters bulging like layers of fat,

fending off the cold winds that blow them from street corner to street corner.



Sitting on library steps, or perhaps alleyways.

Or, maybe even at the rivers edge where they hold summit meetings,

and preach the gospel according to the world.

The world within the maze of their reality  -   within their knapsack.



The cold winds blow through the night.

The cold winds seek their way through

the layers of sweaters,  bundled up,  forming a

geothermal topographical mass of protction.



This topographical mass  -  a knapsack holding their world -

contains safe caverns.

Safe caverns where they hold tight to reality.

Reality held in place within the boundries of canvas and thread.



They turn south to avoid the northerly winds that blow

across a face showing weathered signs of life.

A life that holds firm to the safety of the knapsack .

The knapsack containing the width,  and breadth,   of  their world.



They walk on, they sometimes talk on, and they wander on.

Until the knapsack holds no more their safety.

Until the knapsack holds no more their reality.

Until their sweaters fight no more against

the winds that blow firmly, across the borders, of their knapsack.