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Hollowness
August 26, 2018
There are mornings
when he washes his face -
and find himself
sinking -
in the hollowness
of eyes -
that belongs to a stranger
and there are afternoons
when he stares emptily
at the ink that dances on white -
with lyrics cycling
like a vintage carousel -
as his hand fumbles
and mind crumbles
There are nights
when he dissipates into
the futile black -
and trace patterns and stripes -
pretending it’s a map
that could guide him
to the exit; the right way.
(is there a right way?)
© Antonio H., London, England
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