Stranger

Stranger
Paula Robles Nettle

In my head he clearly stands.
He wears a shadow over his face
his features I cannot make out.
He carries a borrowed voice
for our roads will never cross.
His manner is well composed,
prudent, I dare say refined.
Bright and well thought,
a fearless opinion at times he bestows.
Conceited he may appear,
but gratitude I know he knows.
I can’t seem to ignore:
That out of nothingness I speak,
for little does the stranger reveals,
for there is no other certainty involved
where I can slake my curiosity from,
and very well be so,
for this entertains my thoughts,
bits of truth patiently revealed,
my favorite pastime to think
behind the barricades of our times
I decipher the colors of a soul,
beyond the shadows of the unknown.


Stavanger May 13 2014