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.
Sony A7RV
FE 50mm f1.2 GM
Check out Candid 867
