That piercing gaze that unlocks the shadows

Back alleys could never before house a shooting star

White claws rip vantablack fabric, shred oxymoronic veneer.

Turning tiny spirals in a forward motion, the shrivelled fellow trods on

Through abandoned cobblestone streets

White vacancies scanning those empty mouths of vitality

And upon seeing nothing, he runs.

Tightening spiral, he returns in the day

Intangible hands running rough over clay

Sets down his baggage, takes out his lunch

And sighs, as if he could pray

Bobbing heads in the fray would think not.

Comfort of corners dissolved by bright rays

That tempt him away in the dark

Night vision might cure his desultory haze

But for now, he just laughs in the park.