Standard

“a journey dark,
and yet you never
swing the lantern,
chase the strange
phantasmic magic
of the leaping shadow.

a steady hand
and ready eye can
forge the narrow
path of fools,
surrender softly
and march to martinets,

afraid of life
afraid of depth
afraid of heights
afraid of death—

it’s getting late,
my friend.”

these are things
i’d say to the mirror
if i could face myself.