The Second Creator
Every man nurses his fear,
A hymn whispered in shadowed cathedrals of the heart.
Freedom drips like molten gold, never quite enough,
Pooling beneath the second creator—
She, with her red-hearted berry,
A silent oracle of forbidden fruits.
My fear?
The treason of pardon,
A knife of mercy cloaked in deceit.
With the second creator,
I stand condemned by my own reflection— A suspect in the court of absolution.
I have borne the burden a Moses
And Tuesday’s benedictions,
Each prayer a splintered raft adrift,
Yet the second creator,
Her voice a tempest,
Parted my red sea of doubt.
The air is heavy—
It weeps as I do,
A dirge whispered in the language of leaves.
Fallen, I am the fore-lea,
Cast among shadows that whisper.
Of the second creator,
Who holds my name in her aching hands.
Call me not by the name I’ve worn.
No—call me the college boy,
His boots wrapped in ribbons of regret,
His roads pierced with the holes of unspoken truths.
Now the night draws its velvet curtain,
And I shall meet the second creator,
To walk once more the haunted halls
Of my alma mater—where beginnings bleed into ends.
THE SUN SHINED IN THE NIGHT
I woke with a start, the night slicing open as screams tore through it like jagged knives. They weren’t just sounds; they were wounds bleeding into the air, soaking the silence in terror. My chest tightened, my breath faltered. The weight of dread sat heavy on my chest, cold and unyielding, as though the darkness itself had grown hands and gripped my soul.
Through the cracked window, I saw them—little children, fragile shadows under the fractured moonlight. Their fingers, tiny and trembling, reached skyward as though accusing the heavens of treachery. Their voices were shards of glass, sharp and broken, echoing against the indifferent walls of the night. They played a twisted game, each child pointing to the other, desperate to deflect the unseen punishment. My heart ached for them, yet I stood paralyzed, their fear infecting my own.
I stumbled blindly toward the kitchen, my hands trembling as they groped for the cold comfort of a bottle. The bitter liquid slid down my throat, but it couldn’t drown the rising tide of unease within me. “Mumu,” I spat bitterly into the void, the word clinging to my tongue like ash. It was an empty shield, a weak rebellion against the chaos unraveling outside.
Then came her voice—my wife’s voice, light and lilting, a melody born of mockery. It flowed in from outside, soft but barbed, each note piercing me. She sang with careless joy, her words wrapping themselves around my name like chains. “Oh, Peter,” she called, her tone a cruel caress, a reminder of how far apart we had drifted. My hands clenched, my anger rising like a storm, but it was laced with a sadness I couldn’t shake.
I stepped outside, my feet hesitant as though the earth itself resisted my movement. The air was thick, suffocating, and then I saw it. My breath froze in my chest, my heart a drumbeat of panic. Above my roof, in defiance of all reason, hung a sun—a sun blazing in the cradle of night. Its golden fury shattered the darkness, and for a moment, I thought the world had cracked open.
I stumbled backward, a broken gasp escaping my lips. The madness of it all was too much to bear. Like a man unraveling, I fled inside, seeking the comfort of walls that now felt as fragile as paper.
But the light had followed me. My room glowed unnaturally, its corners no longer cloaked in shadow. I turned to my lamp, desperate for reason, but it was no saviour. A voice from outside startled me—the blind man next door, his shout trembling with disbelief. “The sun,” he cried, his words tumbling like stones, heavy and sharp. Even in his darkness, he could feel the truth.
I sank to the floor, my body folding into itself as tears burned my cheeks. The sun shined where it should not, its light a cruel invader. It illuminated everything—the cracks in my walls, the fractures in my heart, the truths I had buried. The night had betrayed its promise of rest, and the sun had become a thief of peace.
I cried for the children, for their innocence stolen too soon. I cried for my wife, her voice still haunting the night. I cried for myself, a man broken under the weight of things I could not change. And as the tears fell, I realized the light was not salvation; it was revelation, harsh and unyielding. The sun shined in the night, and it burned. It burned.
