I awake each day as the second coming,
a fallen angel whose sword
is tempered by empathy.
By noon, I’m a frightened rodent,
a shivering mouse in the cold dark walls
of a tired old abode.
As late day paints the sky opaque,
I emerge a man, stolid and standing on all ten,
equipped with a legacy that will outlive my ignorance.
By evening, I’m the greatest writer of my time.
Then I write, and when it’s done, I’m an empty bag of biology.
And then I’m the worst writer who ever lived.
When the late-night settles, I am loneliness,
wanting nothing more than to have someone to rub and pet and hold—to love.
Then the idea of someone there, always, tramples me with trepidation; never again.
These masks flash by like fiends ferocious, so many, that I lose track of them each day.
And when I finally start to lean into one, another is upon me,
ravenous like a rabid moose.
But when the early a.m. strikes the night sky,
and the cool coastal fog creeps over the old port-town rooftops,
and the light is soft, and the damp streets are still and bright-eyed, I am nothing.
In that quick blink of time’s eye,
a slice of solace.
A moment to breathe before it all starts again.
And for that moment,
just for that one moment
I become peace.