You wander streets at night.
Lights punctuate the dark.
Sidewalks glisten with rain and ice.
It is a cold city you walk,
a familiar place full of memory and madness
and stories, always stories,
sixty-two years intertwining of lives, lovers
and madmen, yourself one of the latter,
a place once you feared.
There are devils there
and devils within
and you are never sure which are more deadly,
or more haunting.
But this you know.
There are doors.
and each leads to a place of light and warmth
where the demons flee
and the truth laughs
at their cowardice.
About this poem
Hmm. With the earlier poem and this one, it would seem like I am in a dark place. Oddly, I am not. I am in a place of hope.
The picture was taken in New York City, a block or so off from Penn Station.