He walks in a hurry,
Embracing his personal night.
Haunted by banal specters
That block out the day, its
Sheltering light.

He walks in a hurry,
Impervious to tears shed by the sky.
Moved not by emotion; but by
Puppets birthed
From a dead mind.

He walks in a hurry,
With no sign of morn, in those pitch black eyes.
On a flat circle of time.

He walks, one among thousands
On islands of
Never ending
Night.