stranger

Sometimes my thoughts elude me. My actions tilt my brows in confused knots. The mystery that is me is darkest on nights like this, with not even a moon sliver of recognition from the emptiness surrounding me. Lost, detached, confused, bewildered, frustrated: synonyms of my weary soul. No one to cry to but the grassblade. And she already has the dew weighing her down. Even my shadow avoids me, finding more comfort in the coming dawn. Thus shall my soul rest; knowing that the dawn cometh.