Fire burning, a heart which to tie,
He knows it won’t last.
Power from response, response from power,
Not to which matters to him,
As he stares at that tower.
Leaning against the sky which glows blue,
As if taking a bow as to start anew.
He feels trapped in the norm of the way he calls life,
As his heart it does burn,
With dark civil strife.
One moment hopes there,
The next it runs dry.
Little triggers to pull,
As to force him to cry.
He knows not why his sorrow,
Trapped deep in his bones,
Continues to pelt,
Just as hard hitting stones.
He is drowning,
Lost deep in the blue.
He remembers the voice saying,
“ Who knows?
The next one is you.”
His body does work,
In the dark of the night.
Just as a clandestine,
Preparing to fight.
When he does find deep sleep,
It finds him unwell.
His body does writhe,
His imagination swell.
That blurry dark dot,
You can’t see on the map,
Holds its figure in place,
Unready to snap.
It hides in the shadows,
Making his past but a ghost.
He maintains none but fragments,
To which he clings to the most.
Just as he writes this,
A loud screech does pierce the day,
As if a blind hobo grabs his shoulders,
To say, “Be afraid, for this future,
As much as is mine, may drip onto you,
In a dark, shaded line.
You will not see it, for you see none but black,
But it will grab you,
And hoist you off track.”
Later that night,
He does look in the mirror,
Reflecting the words,
Which should make him see clearer.
The dark will not pass,
With but one little light,
He must search very quickly,
For that one spoken sight.
Whether he finds it,
Is not mine to say.
He must look in himself,
If he desire the day.
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