Camera Obscura

I’m dying every night,

a moment in the shadow

of a grinning moon,

a count in the sneaky gliding

of a cloud upon the light

my thought is a hobo

on the sound of a crow,

I’m closing the brightness

doubt after doubt,

the sharp of their edges

stripped of any kind of reason

is cutting as a knife in these sounds,

out of my throat falls a scream

into a dark and silent room,

I disappear in the waves of the tide

in this dream that I have

of a sleep that is waxing.

                                                                                                    

© Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere

26/11/2014