Some nights while he is sleeping,
I stroke the splintered edge
of the inhuman void inside him.
I press against its muted black
and try to hum its hollow ring.
But when his eyelids open
and let the dirty bedroom light
infect the thoughts twisting behind,
I dissipate. Like smoke, I hide
in the dark hallway of his past
where everybody's door is locked
and every picture's perfect face
turns from him and fades away.
And that is all he knows
of any other face:
those restless eyes
seeking escape.
Oh, if he could catch them,
he could make those clear eyes believe
in the precise steps of his movements,
the crystal smoothness of his voice.
He collects each nod and smile,
the priceless reward of his art,
but underneath their warm approval
through the hallway to the dark,
there is the unthawed void inside
where self-love’s brittle match
still strikes with fervent effort
but never succeeds to ignite.
The void asphyxiates the sparks,
unstitches each moment’s meaning,
bleeds dry the beauty of his dreams
till only ashen dust remains.
Dust is all he’ll ever be.
So he says words he doesn't mean
and controls people for the fame
and calculates behind
his honeyed mask
of lacquered shame.
His power is the quickest drug
to pass the nights without feeling
or fighting dreams of broken frames
and faces turned away
and doors beat by his fist
that no one opens.
The power lets him sleep alone
without the glow of tear-shined eyes
or fingers groping at the void
to touch the worth he cannot find.
