The Enigma

He is the enigma.
A delicate ashen butterfly
that all so ardently believe
they can clasp between
their hands to examine,
only for him to slip silently
between their fingers
with effortless grace.


A dark, mysterious silhouette
lurking in the shadows
at the back of the room,
a phenomenon forever
on the periphery -
you can never quite catch a look at him,
‘cause the moment you do,
that’s when he’s gone.


We’ve all seen him before,
that’s indisputable -
everybody knows who he is.
But no-one can quite remember
when or where.
He exists in a permanent state
of monochrome, captivated
by old Hollywood movies and aching,
aging books that he holds
delicately between his pale,
slender fingers adorned
with a wrought metal ring
And black- inky splotches.


His whole world is black and white,
yet it seems impossible
that he could exude less colour.


His presence alone
is a silent blistering whirlwind
of kaleidoscopic charm,
an intoxicating manner
about his posture and form
which leaves an unspoken trail
of hypnotised eyes following
intently after he passes.
He is the effortless captor
of everybody’s curiosity,
the envy of every enchanted gaze,
the figure of boundless fascination
to the countless minds which muse
tirelessly through insomniac nights,
minds revelling in the need to know him,
the need to figure him out.


He is the silent poised figure
resting lightly against the brick wall,
sipping on his black coffee,
who’s fleeting gaze you catch
for just a moment,
and in those twinkling eyes,
as black as coal,
you catch your breath
as you see then,
that dark sparkling secret
that everybody knows
but no-one can quite articulate,
and you, as all others,
are rendered powerless against his spell.


And then he is gone,
walking with a grace of pace
that professes no destination
or urgency, as if each step it’s self
was pleasurable enough a past-time,
and he slowly slinks into the shadows.