Faces
He likes the unlit night.
A dark room with not a single glimmer.
He knows why he is always tired,
his mind must look at a thousand faces a day,
and never flinch away,
but gaze at all the hope and misery
time has written upon them.
Some, the young and beautiful,
bereft of body,
float now in the refraining orbit of memory,
and yet, even they seem to grow old
in this inked over space
He bathes in the darkness,
as yesterday's faces slowly fade,
melting away one by one.
Only his face is left now
to roam across
a pitch of stygian obscurity,
until he cannot even recall
his own reflection,
for all the mirrors in the world
have hidden his features.
At last, he can let go
of all these ever changing
images of humanity,
and with a wordless prayer
light only one small candle
behind his eyes.
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