That night,
on a melodic whisper of silence,
my eyes, heavily lidded
by overweight of
frozen memories: curly
passions,
unsheltered,
keep waiting near the fringe.

Some nights are so bright,
some so lonesome
delights of promise,
the lonely image of that
faceless woman
come together
to walk on; unconcerned.

That night,
setting sun and waxing moon
have cast their own shadows;
they stare blankly,
that faceless woman’s dark eyes
display mischievous
mayhem.
Lonesomeness, sometimes
so intriguing.

There are moments
memories suckle at my heart,
that faceless woman reaches
my soul, deep into my soul
within the very core
of my being.

In each of my eyes
a little darkness
rolls through the ruins
the faceless woman
leaves inside mine;
I gather abundance of life;
night’s lonesomeness,
faintly alive,
drifts lifelessly.