I look through the window,
Head full of blight,
Staring into the pitch of night.

I was writing something about a feeling,
But the message I forgot,
Am I losing the plot?

Lightning, fierce, and bright and hot,
he strikes the ground, hard as a rock.
Faster than a Phoenix rising,
he leaps from the ground, hooves flying.

He fears no man nor other beast,
and shall never balk, to say the least.
Eyes of fire and heart of gold,
he is terrible, beautiful, and ever so bold.

I came barefoot,
not knowing the floor was sacred.
I spoke aloud,
not knowing the silence had already spoken.

Your words were leaves pressed in light,
I reached for them—
with unwashed hands,
with awe too loud for the room.

I did not mean to trespass.
Only to trace the shape
of what moved me
in the still air of your making.

Forgive the echo
if it broke your quiet.
Forgive the translation
if it stripped your breath.

I did not come to rewrite.
Only to sit beside—
not to touch the flame,
but to feel its warmth
through the veil of distance.

If you would open the door just enough
for one reverent glance,
I will not ask for more.
I will only kneel there,
grateful,
and still.

The world does not weep loudly—
it exhales.
A slow breath through cracked windows,
a silver thread trampled
but never torn.

What is named cannot be held.
What is loved must be released.
A cup of tea grows cold beside the nameless,
and still,
we sip.

We speak not to fix,
but to feel the shape of silence
with our tongues.
To say:
He suffered again, and no one noticed.
To ask:
Will they save Him next time?

And when the answer is wind,
we do not shout at the sky.
We button our coats,
nod to the ghost beside us,
and walk through the fog
as if it were light.

There is no demand in these lines.
Only witness.
Only the quiet dignity
of one who sees the fall,
but chooses still
to plant
a seed.

I know sometimes he takes a different form
Oft a Shepherd
A herder of words unreformed
Of depth
And of humour
And poignancy
Renowned
Sometimes
He's his girlfriend
With beauty unbound.

Everything is just right.
Everything is as it should be.
Everything is fine—

Even when it hurts.
Even when it heals.
Even when it doesn’t feel that way.

I watch the traffic through cigarette smoke,
That dances with sighs frosted by winter,
Released into the cold, electric air
By strangers standing close, yet all alone.

And through the blurry neon reflections,
Cast on windows adorned with icicles,
Where the colors bleed along frozen panes,
Something that shouldn’t be there caught my eye.

I thought I saw your shape form in the glass,
But ghosts don’t walk beneath the city lights,
Waiting for someone to follow behind
And lead them through forgotten memories.

Yet no one turns as the traffic drones on,
As I leave to light one more cigarette
And walk by the glass where you might have been,
Where my ghost joins yours in the cold window.
©️2025 David Cornetta