What? No exultation for this beating heart,
under caped costume and mask askew,
crusader of the careless night,
watchful under the moon's waning light
-- twilight’s paralytic hours.
He scavenges aborted dreams
for rage’s silent counterpart --
shadowboxing internal beasts,
replete with daydream’s stagnant stench.
Passing by dissatisfied almost lovers,
passions doused by brimming liquid sunshine,
he fades unnoticed into the blue-gray haze
that's not quite day, not quite night.
Momentum jarred, our hero must recover,
he squints into the birthing sunlight,
clandestine alter ego tamed.
Fading now, he's out of sight,
resting up for yet another night.

04/10/2011

Posted on 04/10/2011
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