He seems afraid of what he can’t explain,
of spirit and color he has been drained,
like a bow bound to snap ‘neath arrow’s strain,
maybe it’s the truth or maybe it’s pain
that wracks and reaps him of blood in his veins–
for the unknown, you know, can’t be contained,
and sometimes its shadows are hardly sane,
and then there’s the question on what’s humane–
for how can we gauge the blackened and stained
when from our eyes the pure truth’s been abstained;
sure, you can toss windward all things mundane,
sharpen esteem so confidence can be feigned,
but in the end despair is still maintained…
because he’s afraid of what he can’t explain.

© 2014 Stellular Scribe