The funeral, the graveyard–sorrow of the waking. He kissed her as he said goodbye . A train to nowhere, a lullaby. Certain death, certain fate, the perfect identity. He stepped upon the train that morning, touching the brim of his hat. A butterfly in a tangled web. A tear to weep, a drop of red. He took a seat. He laid to rest. He passed away as just a guest.
The silvery glass, motionless. The night sky, stirring. He stood before a mirror gazing into the eyes of a blemished reflection—symmetrical, yet so warped. The spectacles, rusted. The eyes, hardened. The hands, bloodied. The last color, faded by time’s touch. Who am i? He thought to himself.
Nearby, an owl hooted breaking the silence in the air. His black fedora shattered. The statue to his left—the gargoyle’s eyes blackened. Looking back upon the mirror, upon the hatred, the shame, the anger, the sorrow, he stole a glance into the eyes one last time. A trail of tears streaked his face, penetrating through the surface of his thoughts.
“Alas!” he yelled out, “No longer are you the demon of my waking. No longer will you creep to the sound of my thoughts or the foot of my dreams.”
As the clock’s hand struck the hour. He lifted his finger, touched his reflection, and painted a stroke of color.
This cool night lays rest among the dead,
Their faces, crumbling in the reflection.
An owl, a night, a desperate cry.
Seeking the dammed to remain in the night,
Falling, longing, I hope for the light.
To see past the darkness that fades my sight.