an archaeic figure sits in a corner,
bathing in a blanket of darkness.
a secretive guile is his costume to this
masquarade ball of life.
his lithe sculpting moves,
wading its toes in the light.
retracting from it at once,
as if being electrocuted.

he retreats to this corner
but the sliver of light,
cutting its way through the
skylight window, slowly follows.
nowhere is safe, not even his sanctuary.
from what light is he hiding,
if his soul is a shadow of the moon,
constantly seeking out ways
to be aphotic?

this light bears resemblence
to something of a forgotten love.
this is not who he was once,
and this is not who he is inside.
this light represents all that is good
that he had to deny to live.
once forgotten, forever lost.

it is drowsy in it's approach,
yet the light is steady.
too close to deny,
but he is too distant to accept.
fast against the walls, he is
held by a paper-thin notice of
contrast.
it disolves to bright, and the
facade is numbed to nothing.

instead of love,
a brutally burned, desolate utopia
is revealed to the eyes;
this shadow of his life was a cancer

he loved his killer.
he loathed the trigger.

06/18/2003

Posted on 06/19/2003
Copyright © 2025 Andrew S Adams