THE CONTRARIAN

By Brian Fleming

There is a meek light in the docile night.
Shapeless, fleeting, the stranger rides into exile.
The willow moans as he takes flight,
And the wind, it howls screams of denial.

They call his name, they say, “Contrarian,
Come and face they fate.”  And he hears them,
The world’s voices passing him by,
They don’t skip a beat.  Then he reverses them.

He hears the willow say, “Contrarian,
Go, embrace thy fate.”  “But they are wrong.”
He hears the wind pulsing, “Contrarian,
Go, leave this place, for you do not belong.”

“Not here.”