The Figure on the Corner
Spiders,
or snakes,
or the wide big blue ocean.
Darkness,
or monsters,
or the strange hissing murmurs.
What scares you?
what breaks you,
when push comes to shove?
What lies,
deep down deep,
all hidden away?
Maybe a figure,
standing alone,
on the corner by your house.
The streetlight is busted.
The moon’s covered by clouds.
Is it just a shadow?
An imagination gone wild?
It’s late,
you’re tired,
your eyes have already gone to bed.
But the figure still stands there,
long into the night.
The figure still watches,
the fear doesn’t budge.
Maybe the figure
or shadow
or dream
isn’t on the corner by your house.
Maybe the figure
is in your room,
following you always.
Get away.
Run away.
But the figure always finds you.
Maybe the figure
isn’t a dream.
Dreams are for sleeping.
This thing is real.
Maybe the figure
isn’t a shadow.
Shadows are shy.
This thing stares back.
Maybe the figure
isn’t a figure.
Figures are solid.
This thing is empty.
Rack through your mind.
What do you know?
Real but empty.
Bold but silent.
A question but no answer,
at least, not that you’ve found.
The figure appeared one day,
you can’t remember when.
Months,
years.
Maybe it’s always been there.
It’s getting braver,
coming closer,
staring longer.
Sometimes, you feel its hand
laid cold and real against your arm.
The first time,
it’s just a breeze,
a whisper of a touch.
You listen.
Maybe today it will speak.
But nothing.
The next time,
it’s stronger,
almost real.
Did you hear that?
Did it murmur?
Is it trying to speak?
Then it’s silent.
Its hand is gone.
Soon, you greet it,
every time you see it.
Smile,
maybe wave,
give it a nod.
It’s yours,
no one else’s.
All the people it could choose
and still it chose you.
The whispers are louder,
words now,
very faint.
But you hear it,
it talks to you.
You’re crazy,
you know it.
But you like it.
The word fits just right.
I’m crazy,
you try to yell,
Come look and I’ll prove it.
I’m crazy.
But who would notice?
Who would care?
You’re making this up,
you know it.
You hate it.
The figure is your imagination,
nothing more than a wish.
There are others
who see,
not this shade
in particular,
but shades just the same.
Only,
they see them actually,
not made up or pretend.
Some fight,
some lay down and give in.
But those figures,
those demons,
those monsters are real.
A true warrior
doesn’t wish for a war,
or sabotage peace,
or hope for a battle to come
so they can die an honorable death,
an enemy sword thrust through their chest,
pinning them down
as they grin and laugh,
blood spilling over lips,
filling their lungs,
turning the dust to mud around them as they whisper,
And now you’ll remember me,
and I’ll live forever
in your books,
in your monuments,
in the stories you tell.
I’m a someone.
I’m a hero.
I am conquered,
yes,
but I fell by the hand of another
not my own.
A true warrior
is thrust into combat,
handed a weapon,
pointed to the line,
told to calm the fear that holds them tight
and fight for their people.
And they fight,
long and hard,
day and night,
until the ground is stained and scarred.
Sometimes they live,
sometimes they die.
But they are the heroes.
You are no hero,
your figure isn’t real,
your battle isn’t real,
you are only a dreamer,
a wannabe,
a no one.
But still,
the figure stays.
You feed it,
you talk to it,
and it starts to talk back.
You can hear it,
the voice is so familiar.
It’s your own.
Soon, you can’t tell who is speaking:
You or the shadow.
It’s all the same.
It doesn’t matter.
You agree with the words,
the soft conviction,
the poisoned barbs.
Only,
the poison feels good.
The darkness feels like home.
This shadow,
this monster,
this figure
is your friend,
your family,
you.
Listen to what it says.
How can it be evil?
How can it be wrong?
It only repeats
what others have said.
It only affirms
what others have claimed.
The figure whispers
and you listen.
