The Call
Calling in the night,
He stands in the open,
Howling at the moon,
A silhouette in your sight.
Every evening is the same,
The climb happens,
One step after another,
Alone; in shame.
It’s always silent,
Before he screams,
From the clenching chest,
Disturbing the quiet, the pleasant.
There is no waiting,
It starts at the tip,
As soon as he reaches,
Never late; never constipating.
It fills the air,
Swelling fat and gluttonous,
Greedy for meaning,
But the pain doesn’t care.
The man is etched,
From shadows of the dark,
And beams of the moon,
A figure sketched.
The jaws hang,
The fists clench,
And the screams;
They ring with a pang.
A bare chest,
Is bathed,
By the moonlight,
A shining, shaking breast.
It rings out,
For miles around,
Forever in the depths,
A solitary shout.
It comes from the hurt,
Of knowing nothing,
Can be done to stop,
Our fate is for the dirt.
It kills him inside,
He knows it shouldn’t,
He knows his own life,
For him, never cried.
How can he not,
For living is cruel,
When you can only live,
That what is your lot.
He could just look away,
From the abyss,
That beckons him,
Leading his thoughts astray.
Maybe he’d find peace,
If he learn to go deaf,
Learn to ignore,
Finally feeling a release.
But there is no life in living,
Oblivious and blind,
To the world around him,
No matter how unforgiving.
He can only howl,
Through panting tears,
And a straining voice;
An anguished growl.
But There is another,
He catches on the hill,
Joining in The Call,
A tormented sister or brother.
He knows their sound,
For his is the same,
They too mourn,
Their undisturbed ground.
They are both alone,
But at least now together,
For they see themselves,
In the other’s moan.
They call in the night,
They stand in the open,
Howling at the moon,
Your silhouette in my sight.
