The Canister

Art by Nick Flook


A silhouette in the distance
The streetlamps cast their lights
Momentarily cast a flickering glow
On his round hat, his trench coat.
He walks.
Though the night is dark
Though not a soul is awake.
Wandering, searching,
yearning
Craving for what he knows not.
He walks.
His eyes are dead hollows
Mystical allure
Of the darkness within him.
He walks.
He moves with purpose
His steps are firm, resolute
His black worn out boots
Yet to see the light of day.
Well past the witching hour

He treads.
He walks.
He walks alone.