A Stranger Indeed
By: John Grey

He's white—faced,
handsome in a way
more medieval than modern,
taller than anyone here,
and his lips are deep red, eyes the same
but from fire and not old age;
and his teeth are like polished ivory,
beautiful and glittering in the light
from the crystal chandelier;
he's says little, moves about the room even less,
but his figure, moon-framed against
a high window and gently lapped by curtain edge
is the cynosure of all attention;
no one knows his name, where he comes from
or who invited him to the soiree;
he just appeared
but he gives off an aura
of having been here forever
and that it is the rooms and the partygoers
that arrived unexpectedly;
in truth, he is alone
in a bare field at night,
surrounded by woods
and the howling of wolves;
the room is a page from another time;
the celebrants are more ashen than he;
despite the smell of rotting flesh,
it's a deathless party.

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