He Who Walks Behind

I splash water on my face,

But the dream I can’t remember,

Haunts me still.

I glance at my reflection,

But even the face in the mirror,

Flickers its eyes past my shoulder.

I flex my fingers,

But the knuckles are white,

While tension builds.

What shows itself now?

Asking to be discovered.

Yet loiters in the shadows.

It nibbles at my awareness,

But I remain blind,

Despite a furrowed brow.

A car horn blares,

And I jump, spilling my black coffee,

And bump into it before it can move.

I frantically spin,

But it moves with me,

Like the dream.

What demands stillness,

In the quiet darkness?

Where I fear to tread?

Dare I look to see,

Where fear stands in front?

Blocking the shadow behind?

I bow my head,

And exhale,

So that fear may see me.

I know it’s satisfied,

When darkness consumes me,

Revealing the one who walks behind.