He is a cast of grey beneath my skin,
maroon hollows beneath my eyes.
A forgotten wind to an indifferent ocean
that rocks my ship to sleep each night.
And on high moons, he is my alleviation,
A lion mirrored in any tarn
with the innocence of a child.
Beneath watchful eyes, he wanders
boundless to a task.
To crowds of others, he bears no soul,
and no self behind his mask.
And to me, he is no other.
But only in forbidden lands.
He doesn’t see who he is to me,
and he doesn’t understand.
Simple, but probably the most honest poem I’ve ever written. For whatever reason, I have been haunted with insomnia the past couple of nights. So this is me awake at 3:30 in the morning, writing down whatever pops into my head and typing it into a box on my computer. So if this isn’t exactly as coherent as I would like it to be, I apologize. Looking over it, it seems to make sense enough to me, but I’m in that dreamy sort of “tired but can’t sleep” phase, so I could be wrong.
Anyway, it’s meant to portray the picture of a young man who hasn’t quite figured out who he is just yet. To me, he is a saint, one of the most important people in my life, but he sees himself as just another ordinary guy.