2016 08 24
Wind blows long coat around his striding legs
and raindrops splotch fedora on his head.
Gold streetlight glimmers in his sea-blue eyes
that see your faces glow behind brick walls
while he constructs the hidden house of mist.
Small camera clicks when he captures your face
and writes your name in his little black book.
He writes long biography of your life
that no one else will ever read or judge,
and files your life in the blank house of mist.
Though you wander city streets many years
walking through ten thousand doors to small rooms,
you will never stand on dramatic stage
to play hero or villain in grand role
that shows forever in the house of mist.
Since you were first born in this world of pain
he walks by your side as shadow unseen.
He stores story of your life on book shelf
in vast library where history is lost
that you will find within the house of mist.
Wherever you go, whatever you do,
he follows you and watches your life show.
Only the tree by the lake is more true,
and your grave stone cracks, hidden by mute snow
that falls whispering lies on the house of mist.
When you have performed every deed you will,
raised children to continue song of life,
and spoken every taboo thought you dream,
he will appear from shadow of despair
and lead you silent to the house of mist.