The Real Mccoy
He walked outside the mirror of
solitude,
And greeted with the purest of
stares.
Confused by this clairvoyant twin, my
fearful color was intact;
I awaited his response, and he spoke in familiar
tongue these following passions.
He spoke of that Sagittarius moon he
celebrates,
when the 22nd day presents itself.
In earlier episodes of himself,
he continuously advanced through blind
hallways,
with no afterthought of the internal flame,
potentially burning in his honor.
He revealed sketches of himself, that await
discovery.
The silent preacher remains his
title,
yet with every curious ear,
his history is awarded audible.
He became an unwritten author a
lifetime ago,
a sigh of relief was expressed,
as he became every metaphor,
thereby regaining those thoughts
of yesterday.
He still dreams of that fatherly
silhouette.
A favorite thought of tomorrow,
to borrow a voice, from this male
influence,
now absent from land.
The thought of plural skies visits him
constantly,
he’s never forgotten the idea of unity,
although on occasion,
it’s faded portrait appears fictional.
He awaits his inspiration in
reality.
Those white walls that surround him in
military stance,
are assumed to be his only company.
However, he’s confident in his legacy, found in
similar souls.
After exposing this identity of truth, he felt
completed,
I too, became a turning stone.
Before retreating, I asked for the word, that
complimented his image,
He simply thought Jiril.
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