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.