Upon La Trobe where night is cast
In hues of coal and echoes past,
A figure sits in shadow's keep,
While neon stars above him sleep.
His hair, in silken tether tied,
Falls like a banner at his side.
Dark features carved by distant flame,
A face the lamplight cannot name.
He bends above a handheld glow,
A pilgrim where no paths may go.
His thumb—a slow, unbroken prayer—
Moves through a world that isn’t there.
Before him, drinks with straws remain,
Like artifacts of some refrain:
A meeting missed, a word unsaid,
Two vessels half-communion, dead.
No sound disturbs the quiet air;
The city hums, but does not care.
Its carriages in midnight slide,
While he sits still, and dreams subside.
Not solitude, nor quite despair—
But something hollow, thin as air:
The weightless ache of all things stalled,
When hearts grow mute and time is called.
Thus framed in grayscale’s careful art,
He waits, though not with open heart.
A man alone, yet not unknown,
Made myth by light, and straw, and stone.
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Very good
ReplyDeletePerfection.
ReplyDeleteThe drink is waiting on the table, the priority is to check if there are any new messages!
ReplyDeleteWhen people are alone they often focus their attention on their cellphone. One never knows what people do on their cell phones, but making phone calls comes way down the list of possibilities.
ReplyDelete