From the north, a desolate glow
overthrows the general placement
of silhouettes of buildings,
and suddenly, instills a mass
of disconcerted energy.
Our hero forages for fortitude
atop the crystal casement
of his rooftop, the rooftop where he idles
within the Molotov Cocktail of his past.
Stealthily, he deliberates
the meaning of this peculiar development.
What could it mean after all?
The dwindling traffic below offers no clues,
nor does the array of voices
from the same place, starting softly
cresting to the center,
and gradually fading
as the downtown wanderers
arrive at the right.
He’s alone – he knows it,
more so now than ever before.
He paces the roof
as if retracing his footsteps -
perhaps he’s misplaced something
and he can’t figure out what
he’s misplaced exactly
so he simply keeps pacing.
He observes the quivering firmament
in front of him, taking half-hearted drags
of a cigarette, engaged in his reverie.
What is the meaning?
The ever burning question churning his brain.
He resolves at all costs to find the answer,
even if the cancer of his knowing
will devour his each and every cell.
Perhaps this is a foreshadowing,
some furious hell on the horizon
fixed to besiege the city, the landscape,
the place he now generously
ascribes the name “home.”
Or maybe a vicious diatribe inscribed
on the status of things.
Whatever torture it brings,
he’s resolved to oppose.
All possibility of repose is abandoned
with this resolution.
He knows what he sees
in a most precise way -
the sinister harbinger of day,
minister of flayed sacrament,
to whom all human existence
is a certifiable detriment.
Undefined, he pauses, licks the cracks
of his lips, and lets fall the cigarette
from his fingertips, and the fall
appears in slow motion, like a leaf
through an autumn breeze.
His knees rattle with consequence.
Six weeks out of bed,
and what has he got to show for it?
He sidesteps his conclusions
regarding the matter, having forgotten
the alien glow and its implications.
His thoughts have steered him
to frightening negations,
the fabrications of his solitude
and unfriendly terrain.
And the muddle of clouds -
he’s failed to take note of this new omen.
Failed to take note of their clustering,
opening, and the grayness of rain.
Thoughts mount to anticlimax.
Thirst accelerates him furiously
into the grayness and the clouds,
and the ashes of his being scatter -
somber remnants in an even more somber air.