by Tom Bajoras
I come to this lake every night;
I stare into its depths,
looking for something I’ve never seen before.
One time I glimpsed the silver flash of moonlight
reflecting off the scales
of a mythical creature;
another time, glittering gems
half-buried in the mud.
But usually there are just scattered leaves
floating in circles.
I come here
for the quiet, for the darkness.
It is the kind of place where stolen money changes hands,
where secret oaths are sworn,
where silence buries silence,
and the unknown remains unknown.
Rival words wage a war all night,
and in the morning the survivors raise a flag
and declare themselves a poem.
But not tonight.
Tonight, all I see is words,
on the water
in endless circles
just out of reach.