below is a bed of asphalt, surveyed
by a creature covered
not in velvet, nor in silk flaunting
in muted strut
deafening silence
preparing for hunt or coming home
no one knows.

illuminated, the creature casts a shadow
against the grainy surface
bleak, distorted reflection
that mocks you with its
empty mercurial gaze
like a soul trapped in ebony cage
an empty space, a vacuum.

the absence of light is darkness
darkness is haunting
light in itself is haunting
the umbra, an illusion
of a phantom in the middle of the night
perplexed by reality and apparition intertwined
if curiosity kills, I bet the nine lives.