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Untitled 4

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Untitled 4

I think he’s possessed by the moon- all rock and darkness.
I can’t be certain, his eyes rarely show it, but in the right light-
that moment when the night has caught the fading sun,
when it's engulfed at sunset- I’m sure I can see him fully.
For that second, I see him, and I see nothing.
He’s all frosted to bone, there’s nothing behind those grey eyes.
As desolate as the moon’s surface, as void as its insides,
he is barely filled, there is nothing in there- a drained silhouette.
His face might shimmer like polished crystal but he is empty,
that iced expression just reflects; there’s madness in those 
silver-white eyes; they have no substance, only shine.
And it’s in that moment that I realise that in his eyes,
I am nothing. I have no purpose to him, a flower growing 
in the warmest summer that's stitched shut, unable to bloom.
The second passes and I think I'm able to bury that feeling,
but it forms again, and rises every-so-often, leeching
my mind dry, his translucence haunting me with every look.
I think I’m certain he’s owned by the moon; it’s clear, 
just like the vacuum behind his eyes that continues to grow.
I’m not afraid of these emerging realisations, it’s only the edges, 
the dark parts that crawl beneath the surface, refusing to be seen, 
that trouble me. It’s the unborn thoughts, the premature 
reflections, the developing machinations that terrify me. 
I’m sure he’s empty, but sometimes I think there’s something in there, 
lurking beneath the surface, waiting in its lair. What does he think, 
when he doesn’t think at all? What breeds in the darkness, in that 
hollow cave, that light refuses to exist in? It’s these questions that 
disturb me at night, and I wonder whether I can live with the shadow-man.

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