The Salesman Who Sold Faces to the Poor

The Salesman Who Sold Faces to the Poor

He wandered the streets with a suitcase in hand,

A salesman with wares that no one could understand.

To the poor, he offered a choice so profound,

A face to wear, a new self to be found.

“Here,” he’d say, “take this, it’s yours for the price,

A brand new reflection, a fresh disguise.”

With smiles he would sell, and promises spun,

Of lives reinvented, of battles won.

Faces of youth, of beauty, of grace,

All lined up for the poor to replace

The weariness etched in their own weathered skin,

A mask to conceal all the struggle within.

They bought with hope, not knowing the cost,

Thinking a new face would help what was lost.

But beneath the surface, the truth would remain,

A face could be swapped, but the soul felt the pain.

And so he moved on, with his wares to sell,

The salesman who knew how to weave the spell.

Faces to the poor, masks for their pain,

But the heart still remembered the scars of the rain.

For the faces he sold were only disguise

the poor, though transformed, still saw through the lies.

They learned in time that no mask could conceal

The truth of their lives, the wounds that were real.

But the answers they needed came from inside,

A change in destination, a past they needed to hide.

For no face could heal what had broken them so,

The real journey was learning to let go.