The night folds across his skin,
a fabric worn thin by silence.
He waits among shadows that quiver,
his breath a faint wind through leaves.
Polished shoes gleam like kept secrets,
the moon draws lines upon his face.
Each gesture a bridge to nowhere—
his smile, soft thunder in disguise.
He walks out of dreams half-formed,
a quiet hunger cloaked in poise.
Words fall carefully from his mouth,
distant echoes seeking their prey.
In his eyes, the galaxies tremble,
their edges frayed by ancient restraint.
He is patient as stars dissolving,
the mask of civility holding firm.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Online) - Published: February 8th, 2026 05:11
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Online)
Comments1
Another wonderful poem Gray and so true it is indeed. Patience is a virtue they say and so society regards it when hunting prey whether animal or human. They say men are dogs the savage ancestor the wolf. Man's best friend domesticated for thousands of years has developed patience. A wolf too is patient when hunting and perseverant chasing down its prey. Ever hungry the wolf is stealthy as most women know. A fave
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