POEM - Whatever The Night Might Say

Its a felt quality
of an emotion being squeezed
through a constricted vein
hard to tell
where its veracity lives, probably
in rocks and hard places,
that would explain
why my mood is dark, morbid even
nothing appears to have the worth
of a penny anymore,
and people
they pass by like amber ghosts
walking through shopping malls, behave
as though I and walls no longer exist,
merely walking upright seems the sole purpose
ingrained into
travelling from A to B, and the
meaning? well, its understood
that that
is in the shirts I wear
what soap I use, to 
every slight affectation of the self
a person can think of, each
colour, pattern, vivacity
trivial to this mood
the unfriendly companion, whose
woven itself into my thought-stream tells
a very grim story
that has only a few corners 
where happiness is left intact
a raw sunset concludes but
reveals only a fast fading glimmer
of the drama, of what is out of kilter
beneath the horizon
there seems to be not one question
needing an answer, for this clear and certain
companion, so self preoccupied, 

is content in being a glum head,
to bathe in the labyrinthine puzzle
of feelings, in this phase
of the moon, the moon 

to which a werewolf might express fealty
and blood, 

the demon hidden in a twist of wires
the shadow of a shadow
who I refuse to worship
will not submit to
for I hold no credence
or belief in 
whatever the night might say.

written June-July 2021 by
Stephen Lumb