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The Book Of Night.


The Book of Night is open wide,
with pages frayed and worn -
I cannot cross the other side,
don't trust my own records:
They sided up with silence,
like shadows of a thought -
Your countenance is fading,
until its grip is gone.

Sometimes I think it's working,
Sometimes I do not know -
Sometimes it's like a short- cut
To something unexplored;-

I think I saw you yesterday,
or else the day before,
down by the Subway Platform,
but then, what is for sure? -
Been gazing at the mirrors since,
dressed up in my best doubts-
Got questioned by a stranger there,
for answers not yet found;

Sometimes there's just excuses,
Heading all nowhere -
Till Nowhere too is charted,
Explored and mapped as well;

So, stumbling on from fall to fall,
through trenches of regret,
where Ethics died a thousand times, -
an ugly No-Man's Land;
Till suddenly, between the angst,
within the midst of loss,
the aftermath of panic grows
stepping- stones to cross;

Sometimes they're stained with heart- ache,
Sometimes they're shining new;
Still most of them are rubble,
waiting to be smoothed;

I tried to make it down the shore,
to set those pebbles free -
When I arrived, the tide had turned,
but who commands the seas? -
It's like it should stay written
in Blood or Black on White:
some apocryphal longing,
deep in the Book of Night;

Sometimes there is the naked truth,
Sometimes there is a lie -
But ain't no blade that's thin enough
To stick it up inside -

And memories like shifting shapes,
dancing on the walls -
The mesh of time unraveling,
till every line is crossed; -
Your countenance departing,
the thought of you restored...