and choked on his words
as if unsatisfied by the sound.
Broken in placidity,
complacent in mediocrity,
with the voice of panic
blaring in his eardrums.
Imminent change unfolding
in his mild-mannered world
disturbed by thoughts
and wants to be what the night is
but never having tasted
such blanketed delight.
Tiptoeing into remorse
after diving into darkness
and hitting bottom hard, bruising;
hands marked by truths
not meant to be uttered, then,
and he believed --
A deep, resounding hope
which quaked within his breast.
Beat after beat, unassailable.
The maker of beautiful things,
of ironical things, he wrote,
but words are black and white
and he is colourful.
I had loved him then
before he blurred to grey.
~~
Spoiler
Dedicated to someone of whom I miss dearly.
