You are not a beam of sun, with luminance and light

Or lips that curl into an imperfect smile of a passerby

Or Fort Meyers, Florida, retirees gazing into your sky of cotton balls

You are more like a pocketknife,

slitting the wrists of the darkness

In blackened gloom

Tower of terror,

You never cease to amaze me

The mask that conceales you

Of your false carelessness

You are fog on a stormy night

Leaving others hurt, lost, confused

You leave me unharmed

Without a single scratch

I feel no piercing anguish

And at the end of the pitch black tunnel,

I see a light,

Pocketknife