PHOSPHENE by J.T.A. Reddy

If we would walk alone, would shadows need

our company? If snow is kept beneath my feet, 

what angels do I find beside the white?

If hearts are made alone, can I ask why? 

Beloved stranger, feet atop nowhere, 

eyes cast toward the sky’s awaited symphony, 

that day that speeds towards you, leisurely;

is it quiet? The day your memory

succeeds in all regards but one - of such 

tremendous ill, vacuity, and brevity

to those beside the setting sun.

There, those shadows are cast, they stretch until the end,

where the day comes when you say my name again - 

when all the light has left the word, except a glean.

And lights will dim on our scene, 

an ever-faithful phosphene, or maybe 

that day has already been.