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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required He walks without footsteps; no stranger he greets His bowed head unseen; he’s the man who won’t speak He fails to acknowledge those using the park And then there’s his manner… a strange shade of dark He’s never seen entering, nor does he leave But daily he’s seen, so he’s real I believe And yet where he treads, he leaves not a mark Above him the sky is a strange shade of dark Rumours abound that he’s always around As he grieves for a child who lies under the ground For sure he lacks something one might call his ‘spark’ His sorrow it seems is a strange shade of dark Does he work, does he not, does he live on the street Does anyone, anywhere tell him he’s sweet Is he builder, repairer or is life a lark Perhaps he is simply… this strange shade of dark Curiosity got me; I followed him once I harboured the notion there’s something he hunts He laboured a while as a lamp lit him stark Yet still what I spied was a strange shade of dark Why did he linger, why did he wait Was I the prey and was he the bait At once my gasp, was my only remark The thought in my head was a strange shade of dark There, neath the lamp, buried hilt deep in leaves A blade as is held by both killers and thieves The cops came as somewhere I heard a dog bark The Fed’s sullen frown was a strange a shade of dark The dark man now faced me and I wonder why The face that I see has a tear in its eye Land excavators were soon in the park And the feelings I have… are a strange shade of dark
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