Agora Aghori

The Aghori walked into the agora,
Skull handed, mat locked,
Ash faced and tridented,
Marijuana breathed,
Seemed close to demented,
People parted,
Started to turn heads,
Fearful fingers stopped half pointing,
Eyes overflowed with dread,
The dead beggar's two year old waif,
Clutched the thousand beaded hand,
A collective gasp arose,
Even the air, still did stand,
Eye roll and a red tongue stuck out,
She clutched a handful of beard,
The medicant's howl of pain,
And a babe's chuckle did they hear,
Below the dread locked mustache he smiled at his blood brother's child,
Even Bhairava is not without a sense of compassion.