a few thousand migrants
from run-down middle American nations
join together for a march
to reach the US border
and apply for immigrant visas

the tiny president
of the great United States
sends out the army to protect
the nation of 350 million
from this terrible threat

the master of fake
playing his power games
on the back of the most needy

the night in which
the dead come alive for a while

only to be frightened
right back into their graves
by the horrible masked spectacles
of the living

I am the night owl
flapping its wings
stealthily through your dreams
with a soft  feathery touch
    you may remember
       you once imagined
like the figure at the end
    of the corridor
    whose face always remains
    in the shadow

I am the sower of images
   growing from the dark
touching your mind gently
tapping at forbidden doors
   closed to the brighter hours

I am the prowler of twilight thoughts
that lend shapes
     to your hopes
     and fears and desires
living their lives
     in between

I am the night owl
that shudders
    and folds its wings quietly
when the sun rises
    always too soon
patiently waiting again
until the day is done

* *