The Poem of a Different Night

Something compelled me to leave the evening,
To find across the city some distant meaning,
I took by bike the trails I knew,
But soon I reached a somber gloom.

Press on, strain for the far side,
The place I knew in day cannot steal my stride,
Beyond this, is there refuge? A haven, a park, I have not met,
Home is gone, I press on, beneath the smog, like a net.

Life returns, I’ve braved the grit,
But my surroundings, still ill fit,
Through streets, alien and cold,
Lights flick and stab, I keep my hold.

The park, deathly waiting, it draws near,
But what comfort? In this state, growing fear,
Alas, it is like the rest, but lost dark to dreams,
Deepened I enter, judging what passes for what it means.

Will I find meaning, is there a reason?
I coast over the bridge and find my rhythm ceasing,
I come to a stop, a plain question is beating,
I ask the question of the enfolding feeling.

“Why am I here?”

I look to the left, someone is near,
I approach their ghosts, hoping they'll clear,
They mock with locked intentions, proving there is no meaning,
My hope is twisted as they laugh at my dreaming.

On to the following scene, to see what may come,
Here there is a group, that may be having fun,
But I pass on, the moment is hollow,
For now I hear a calling that beckons me to follow.

Shrill and longing, comes the cry,
I ask the question again, but there is no reply.

“Why am I here?”

I stop to wonder, what truth lies here,
The natural workings hold nothing clear,
It is like I am caught in someone’s poem, in another’s mind,
Perhaps this dream is one of mine.

The calling comes once more, and I sense my feet move,
What I will meet is what this strange timing will prove,
An intersecting line, to the road, the fringe of the park,
And here comes one, on a bike, out of the dark.

She appears not to notice, but cycles on past,
She utters the shrill call, and continues on fast,
She cries once more, to the peacocks, they respond,
I cycle to follow, but the peacock lady is gone.

What strange occurrences, what can be learned?
Is it all random, or is a wisdom to be earned?
I wish to be home, so I ask again,
The question that wonders if there is a higher plan.

“Why am I here?”

At being washed away,
With a stranger the night belongs,
But wait, I remember a song,
It played, eerie had I not known the tune,
It played, and a mood it caused to bloom,
I’ll follow you into the dark,
And here, the park.

I realize then, that in my pack,
There is paper and pen, even a light at that,
I can write, I can capture this living poem, the visions like birds,
I can take the verses I have walked and turn them into words!

Alas, my hands too cold to write!
How will I remember all that passed tonight?
I return to the city to warm my hands,
But find all to be shaded by a putrid lens.
Am I left without? Where is life?
All around me. Through this strife?
Eyes pass me, what a face,
Looking from the dusty dark of city waste,

The flags blowing in separate directions,
Blackened windows, void of reflection.
The seagulls, tossed in lights,
Over buildings, swept-away kites.

A sudden tree,
Real above a dream,
Clear and real, leaves a-gleam.
It does not care about my worry,
It lives as is without a hurry.

I watch the world, I await my bus,...people pass,
I can only wonder if any one stranger might be one to last.

Gone far from home,
Only to write this poem?
What meaning can there be?
But that I am alone.

A crime that no one knows,
And there an ambulance goes,
So lost at night, I return home,
Events no longer pass, I reenter my dome.

Too cheery the computer where I type this,
It dumbs the words and doubts the real darkness.
One more line to write, is it clear?
I finish with the question that now ebbs and disappears,

“Why am I here?”

This time, an answer shines pure.

The End

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