The mirror of the city

I am non-existent in the heart of the city
A shadow in the distance as Im sitting
in the stupor of a the drug trying to hit me,
A figment of the imaginative Users consciousness, 
A painting in a dim lit alley where only vagrants pass,
Unable to be appreciated for its beauty due to its placing. 
The only shrines of the poor filled up in a mason,
Hated by the world for being different it's wasted, 
Down the drain of another used up cliche.
Rarely apprehensive to the cultural whore's taste in fine art,
timidity stops him from acclimating to his potential greatness,
He'd rather be quite
a mystery to the masses
A master of being faceless.