The night, as dark, was like a man’s mirror.
A man would, in odd hours, roam the earth—
Such a man was no angel, rule out no devil;
Likely, a man alone and loving the odd night.
A man would, in the depths of dreams, snore—
Such a man was a tour of dimensions.
Some guests were welcome, some hosts, hostile;
Some things we thought, in the AMs, we lived.
How strange, thus, that with the rising sun,
Rise our masks—pretense, with cloaks of dark;
How strange is the perfection of our fakery!
The consistency, which then becomes normalcy…
He strode through the dark, carrying loads in him—
His mind could blow but he would hold on, hold on,
His heart shattered but he collected every piece;
He was a man alone in the night and not loving it.
It troubled him—how beyond forever the walk felt;
The night was a mirror—he could desire and look;
A mirror that reflected beyond the surface,
Unlike that of the face, it reflected the heart
And among the complications, that were.
Poetry Wednesday is live 😍 Join me!