The Man by the Bridge
Skriven: 27 april 2025
He sits on the cold stone, as every night.
He waits for the darkness that follows light.
He longs for her visit; soon he must pay,
the darkness will take what is hers anyway.
His face is pale, his eyes brimming with tears,
they cloud his sight—that helps with his fears.
His hands tremble as he puts them over his ears,
the rush of blood, the truthful words,
the whisper of a scream—he remembers it: even unseen.
The darkness awaits not man, not light.
She comes from afar but always wins this fight.
Let it be a welcoming instead.
Give in, let her live, always in your mind.
Her voice is the darkness; he remembers it well.
Calls through the silence—he answers her then.
Come closer, he begs, you don’t need to fear me.
Release me from this earth is his plea.
To leave with her, he must gather his strength,
the final act is his choice alone.
His hand in his pocket—
he feels the cold steel, the sharpness, the weight,
he has known it since the light first shone.
The darkness awaits not man, not light.
She comes from afar but always wins this fight.
Let it be a welcoming instead.
Give in, let her live, always inside your mind.
When darkness is far from man and stone,
the shell of what once was is left to be undone.
His face is pale, no tears in his eyes,
his arms weigh heavy on each side.
A stain has spread on the ground around the stone,
the air is still—no movement, no sound.