Like the light of a distant star traveling through space,
I am just now receiving this image.
A picture of a young man
Barely seventeen, wearing large aviator glasses,
His hair long and feathered, as was the style in 1977.
His eyes are pale blue, but in that picture
His right eye looks very light, baby-blue, bright
But his left eye looks rather dark, closed-off, guarded.
I know now, in the present,
What he was hiding behind that stoic mask.
It came down not like starlight, but like dark matter,
Seeping through the atmosphere.
A cold truth that burns nonetheless—
He was dreaming about killing somebody.
YOU ARE READING
Poems Don't Have to Rhyme
PoesíaPoetry collection. Some of it is pretty good, most of it is pretty bad.
