The Man With No Name

The Man With No Name

I pass him every day on the way to work,

he smiles, says good morning,

have a lovely day.

Who is he, this beautiful man with no name?

No name, no past to hold,

just the weight of every step

etched in cracked dirt and cold shadows.

He’s no hero, no villain,

just the quiet storm before the world breaks,

a line cut sharp,

a silence that screams louder than words.

No promises. No regrets.

Only the hunger to move forward,

even when the ground burns beneath him.

The man with no name

doesn’t ask for mercy,

doesn’t beg for a place to rest.

He carries the ghosts

no one knows,

and in that heavy quiet,

he finds what no one else can,

freedom without chains,

and power in the lost.

He is not forgotten,

he’s the story left unwritten,

the breath between heartbeats,

the force no one sees coming,

but everyone feels.

One day he may want to know me more,

till then he will remain

The man with no name,

behind an exciting closed door.