here is a man, half-mad during the night.

he is a man of the world,
who believes his senses.
adores his senses
and accepts their observations.

his eyes are sharp as he raises them,
cursing at the stars in their burning clusters,
begging for the drop of a curtain or a blindfold or blindness.
how dare the sky stay lit,
how dare the air stay crisp,
while his beloved is cold,
alone,
buried deep,
rotting.

he thinks:
the darkest the world can appear
is not dark enough.
it needs more,
should be deprived of more,
having just been deprived of one
so utterly much.
it should suffer as he does.
it should be despairing, devastated.
it should be crumbling into chaos.
but it acts as if it has not lost,
acts as if there is more to lose, still

and he knows that is not true