It’s February now and leaves are distant figures
The past comes flooding through the windowpane,
A crimson sun conveys and then disfigures
Old memories about the cripple with a cane.
And how he limped his way towards disillusion,
For years roaming the cobbled streets, aghast
Self made explorer of his own seclusion
Watching them all yet sticking to his fast
That dried the shelf until its splinters flew,
Like motes of dust drifting away in light
Seeing so clearly how the silence grew,
From inside out until the dawn of night.
When monsters wept over their human traits
And seams of brittle lives began to merge,
All huddled up in bounds of different faiths
These thoughts of gloom had then unleashed the scourge.
But it’s been years since cripples were to blame
For now the shelf has almost lost its cast,
The moth’s not dead but weary of the flame
And it’s the time to let go of the fast.
TheThoughtsOfNeaGrigore 