04-18-2016, 04:38 AM
Witching Hour
He grins at men getting off the metro,
When the flourishing breath that the steel
has held from the last stop is released,
And the suits with turgid language cut
right through this image unknowingly.
Traipsing past neon lit signs
that patiently remind him of
inadequacy, flickering and
ever present; becoming an
unwilling sentinel on concrete.
Gone from the eyes of passerby,
Feeling of being a part in
some worldly commute to escape
sordid sterile city lights has left.
This absence is invaded with silence.
And within this space that seemed
Somehow boundless and yet horribly
small and so closely confining,
There was tender joy in the sight
of the odd passing artificial light.
Headed to his dwelling in a torpor
thinking about how these concrete corners,
all squalid and abused, should outlive him.
Lingering just longer than the chapel.
Now home away from the earthly glow,
The man lies in bed reading aloud
To the enthralled linoleum ground.
This served no real purpose at all,
Except maybe to create more sound.