Miles walks beneath the bridges,

talks to seagulls in Morse code.

He says he won an Oscar in disguise

for a film shot inside a freezer.

Wears a scarf made out of tin foil,

keeps a notebook filled with others’ dreams.

He writes haikus to traffic signs,

signs them: “The Count of Mist”.

Miles of the underpasses,

ghost in neon and rainy glass.

He whispers truths in shopping carts,

and dances with forgotten ads.

Once he traded two old coins

for a secret trick to vanish.

Now he mimes in stormy weather,

calls himself a part-time prophet.

He once waltzed with a broken light,

swore he saw time lose its steps.

Took tram number zero at midnight

to visit a childhood memory.

Love left him a single ticket

with no return and no platform.

Since then, he haunts the train stations

looking for the right departure.

Miles of the underpasses,

king of torn billboards and empty tracks.

Each night he translates the dreamer’s sleep

into songs that no one sings back.