Inside the cave,
in a stormy night.
He stares the stone
and he finds the light.

A common day
outside the forest.
A wildfire is stalking
a lust in the chest.

He has a street
by the name of a whore.
He fears himself
and he has always outrun
his core.

He has to be mad
he has to remain awake.
A wind that passes through the pines
he is the day himself when he is mostly sad.

So i call him a shore
a rolling friend.
The past is a song
that he has lent.

The lyrics are same
the memory is a death.
In fall it’s broken
and the north comes in thread.

One day he will find his name
one day he will find me here.
through the ways of losing i have found a fare.

……………………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Ozier Muhammad