Is not knowing what is in the shadows worse than thinking you know and being right? |
Almost hidden by the golden leaves, Grinning obscenely, Holding no emotions back On his white slab of a face. Silver dollar eyes Twinkling in spite of the shrouding darkness Longing and fear and hate and love, Years beyond count showing Fogs of war Arcs of pain Clouds of suffering Eons? Centuries? Years? Days? Time must have no concept. Why? Hate hath none, either. And this moon's border? Tangles of hair rather than planets Weather worn locks of brown Ash-smudged, not Not star-smeared or spattered with Travelling fiery wishes of the heart Hanging willessly Ever irreplacable Rope of the hangman; Eye of the shooter; Form of the hunter: Lost means incomplete Ever broken mirror or Crippled puzzle To have no rope the hangman's but a man Is the same true to us as well? Obvious is the answer to he who Never asks the question. Of course to never ask is to Fear the unknown. So he never Throats his queries. He enjoys fear. His ruby red lips stay closed. They are Eerily slicked crimson. With what? we wonder. Every person questions fear Starting the moment they are born The empty clost becomes Every night a room full of terrors Reminding of things parst and things to come. Imagination is a curse. Now still is the moon face staring back at me through the Glass. Is it of my fevered mind? Or a Man of flesh and blood and bone? Obliviously ready to fulfill my nightmares. Oh, fear of the unknown is bliss. Now that realization of fear is terror. |