Misplaced Mountains

He is but a ghost,

A sweet nothing in a room brimming with misconceptions.

When the sun is high overhead,

Or securely behind the horizon,

He is safe to exist,

Flitting between patches of shadow and blinding sun,

Just a blip on the edge of consciousness. 

It is dusk and dawn that carry danger,

When the world stares down at him with weary eyes,

Its field of vision obscured by drooping lids and hanging lashes,

Which flutter wildly if the wind but breathes;

When it is not yet coherent enough to comprehend what it sees.

This is when he dissolves,

Hiding behind misplaced mountains,

Made of earth too soft for its purpose,

And silenced by a painful careening,

High enough to smother any note he attempts to sing.

Reviews

[Emily B]

perfection