by John Moessner

And my eyes to still windows move,
Clutching, white knuckled, the edges
Of silhouettes, but drawn in
Despite protest. I move with the
Light on treaded paths,
My feet too heavy for,
Trampling where others once smoothed.

Privileged trespasser, moving still
Where others stopped long ago.
On nights with moons that meant more,
Ached more, carried more magic
Than science allows, Every sound,
Buried into the thick drawn carpet of time.
I walk where others have the power to move.
I have only been invited