“Bad things happen in the night.”
I found myself,
Stumbled upon my golem from afar.
Abandoned, abandoning sobriety,
Standing in as a soldier of sombriety,
Facing the horizon on a hillside,
The distinction fading in the starry backdrop.
The facade of a cityface evaporates,
Like heat from asphalt,
Transients clocking out and returning home.
History and the impetus of entropy,
Struggling, oblivious, against the resistance of the other,
Paints a humbling tapestry that remains,
In terms of composition: devoid.
The shambling hull I call myself rises up,
Pulling against the murky magnetism that holds his face close,
He pulls his tired legs up and pushes up against the hill,
Disheartened but quietly resolute,
Waiting on the man supposed to be at the top of the hill,
Both by word of mouth and out of expectation.
I sit away from my own self,
Watching the silhouette of a solemn simulacrum,
Oblivious to the auditorium of inevitability,
The silence of the future cloaked around his tiny globe,
Dig into the earthen monument,
Climbing to the stars.
“We’ll come back tomorrow”
‘And the day after tomorrow’
‘And so on’
“The point is –”
‘Until he comes’