Do you ever walk just a little off pace?nAnd take a look at a strangers facenPoint in case:nIt's Sunday morningnAnd I'm crossing the parknIt's only about an hour after darknStill freshnThe cold breeze seems to bite at my fleshnI turn my collar upnMy face is far from impressednThen I pick up something from the corner of my right eyenIt's a white guy slumped across a benchnSuited under a business mans trenchnI recognise a... alcohol stenchnMan looks tired, he's staring into spacenAnd has a pensive but sullen look painted on his facenSo I change pace yet I don't speed up I slow downnDrawn to the sorce of the force behind his frownnI sit downnHe looks about fifty-fivenAnd as we sit together in silence... there's no-one else alivenIt's like a scene from some placid apocalypsenHim with his vodka lipsnMe with my headphonesnWe sit and breath the mornings dead tonesnPeople still in bed tonesnSleepy yet appearing clear in head tonesnH-Hmm, I coughnAnd for a second I think our bench might take offnLike a spaceship made of concrete and woodnIt's all goodnAs he speaks he turns to face menAnd I notice he has a black eye that I didn't see beforenI see more than the average quota of worry lines around his eyesnWhich are deep, sunken and darknTwo strangers meeting in the parknStark differences and appearance butnThere's nobody here to judgen'You should never hold a grudge' his voice is gravellynAnd wisdom unravels me so I try and stay focusednI ask him what he meansnHe says, 'We spend too much time awake to be ever concerned with dreams'nHe looks older than he seemsnAnd has the aura of a man coming apart at the seemsnYou know what I mean?n'Whats all good then?'nThats my next questionnHe says, 'Try stepping out to look in, that's my suggestion'nI say, 'Well, that's all good and well but you can't go through your whole life in third person can you?'nHis face changesnPosition re-arranges and what's strange is; I'm getting more and more intrigued nBoth of us fatigued and yet we proceed to discuss the difference between what we want and what we really neednWe all bleed even if we never see itnSo take heed or else you'll blink and then you'll be itnThe personnThe thingnThat which you hatenAnd the ones who say it's never too latenHave never lostnStrive for the best in your lifenAt what cost?nKids you hardly know, wife cold as Jack FrostnEmbossed, raised questions printed on bonesnThat never crossed the mind of a million clonesnI ask him, 'Is this then a means of escape? Last bastion of manhood, a beautiful poison grape?'nHe says, 'Don't be dramatic. I'm just here for a drink and my thoughts.'n'I think now-a-days you call it me time'nI say,' I know what you mean. Room to breath and be time, close your eyes to see time'nHe says, 'Yes'nNow there's about three feet between usnAnd if you'd seen us you might of thought this was some seedy pursuit of penis butnAll it was, was a meeting of two soulsnOne young, one oldnOne warm, one coldn'I hope you don't think me too bold,' I say, 'But is there a chance you become passive as a way out?'n'Failing to see a day out seems common in the unsure'nAn empty house bilt on bad foundationsnHe says, 'Let me tell you something, contentment is a myth'n'But what if?' nHe cuts me off, 'I didn't finish. Let me tell you something, contentment is a myth... if you have regrets'nI say, 'Well don't get upset, but no shit Sherlock. That much seems obvious'nHis eyes move forward become less hideousnAs the morning Sun risesnHe asks my name as if he doesn't knownI said, 'They call me PolarBear, but my birth certificate says Steven'n'Ah Steven, Steven. He who is non-believing'nI say 'No.'n'Somebody told me that Steven means king and if I know one thing it's that a middle-aged man's inebriated generalisations should go no further than his piss stained throne'nHe hears the change in my tone and adjusts himself in responsenEnsconced in his own state of mind.nI find myself thinking, did i ever know this man and did he throw away his plannOr was he genuinely wronged?nNot sure I ever knownBut any and either way I know it's time to go sonI go to stand upnAnd as I do he puts his hand up and 'Hu-ahah' clears his throatn'So what's your philosophy? What's your ethos? Do you believe in Jesus and the good in all men? You haven't seen anything yet.'nI look at himnHis collar wet with sweat his face wet with tears now dryn'All I can do before I die,' I say, 'Is try to keep my eyes my ears and my mind open and if I do that there'll be no need for hoping or anxieties about coping with life's oh-so many obstacles'.n'You're young,' he says, 'Time changes a man'n'Time changes everything,' I reply, 'I have to try and change myself'n'So enjoy your drink and your thoughts and as you add up the ones and the noughts be sure to allow for the future'nHe offers his handnTo shake itnDo I take it?nOf course I donI can't begrudge this man anythingnBut as I walk away from cold concrete and woodnI feel somewhere between good and not so goodnYet nonetheless inspirednThe thought grows in me that I could be pre-wired to share that same fatenWhether early or late I could wake up in that same statenOn the same throne of the once greatnMaybenOr maybe if I remain bold I can break the mould of it all grown cold and breath out the false promises toldnI dunnonI hope sonA dog barksnJust as I reach the edge of the parknAnd for the snap back to reality I'm gladn'Cause you know every epiphany feels like a gift to menAs I glance back at my distant old Dadn