I’m like a shadow,
the demon, hated,
hiding in the city, stooped.
A hunchback ill-fated.

If I go outside
I hide in the cracks.
Colourless and camouflaged
within the crevice blacks.

If I am exposed
by a light cascade
I shrink back in horror
and step back in the shade.

Hence I stay indoors
shut myself away,
so all I'll ever be
is different shades of grey.

THE PRETENDER

He thrust his fist
to the heavens
and cursed the gods
in defiance
to claim his divine right
and alliance
with Dark Ones
who judge and condemn all Creativity
with mellifluous drippings
of false eloquence,

The Muses all
covered their faces
veils mourning black
and took to hidden places
for fear of an attack
and that one of his arrows
dipped in venomous bile
would find its mark
in their own heart

IL PRETENDENTE

"Where does reality come from,"
the title of a book of philosophy by Arne Naess.

Reality,
is it,
was it ever,
can it be,
or is it illusion,
who really knows what it is,
and why is it that we ask?

We question
the existence of existence,
so to speak,
we speak it,
it is when we speak
we hear it's voice,
it's creed.

We need to know,
but why?

What is there we can do with it?
Is there anything we can do with it?
No.

I dipped my hand
in a cold stream of lamplight
my hand came out
dripping with tiny wings

I held a flock of new friends
spotted brown and gray