Down The Road

 

Late Night Visitor

 

 

 

A rug runner devours steps,

Where is a draft coming from?

The rustling of reeds is a hushed voice of silence,

Night hangs out with dwarfs and elves,

If it wasn’t for play of light,

The truth would be pale and scarred,

It would be unsightly and naked,

 

The owner loves spacious attics,

Long hallways and boudoirs,

Intimate atmosphere is the queen of his bedrooms,

He has a strange foreign accent,

Where is a host?

How does he look?

What country is he from?

It’s useless to ask unanswered questions,

 

He often leafs through ages,

Manuscripts and yellow press,

Masterpieces and random letters,

He hates his job,

It’s his punishment,

It’s his curse,

But he made a fortune solving old style crosswords,

 

Seconds are always busy,

Only time doesn’t change,

It takes a glimpse of faces,

And antique Murano glass lamps,

Time manipulates emperors, kings, princes,

They intrigue and wage wars,

Before they become allies,

 

Nobody pays him a late night visit,

Except for an isle of flickering light,

The isle of light is drifting,

It’s a quiet and sloppy journey,

It roams and stains watercolors and oils,

Suddenly it makes a stop on the painting,

It hangs next to the bullet hole,

The painting’s name is Despair in love.