Thurman P. Woodfork


What is causing the palpable unease of this man who sits alone in solitary, forced calmness? It’s evident that there’s no serenity in his silence.

His brooding eyes are turned inward, momentarily blind to the living here and now that surrounds him. He’s lost in a somber reverie of long ago sights and sounds – past events that are very much part of his present.

What is he watching for from deep within his psychic bunker as he fitfully rises to patrol its intangible perimeter? What immutable sorrow is he holding almost tenderly to himself while yet wishing it gone?

If he really is hiding, why does he never turn off the lights? No matter how intense, they can’t illuminate or relieve the gloom that waits just beyond their brightness to envelop him like the melancholy shadow of Poe’s raven.

But he really isn’t alone. Deep within that pensive darkness, almost unseen, lays a smoldering, illusive presence, coiled and also watching.

So, does this conflicted, sequestered soul seek to reject the world, or is he actually protecting those outside his self-imposed, invisible barrier?

Unanswered questions that only give rise to even more questions; He has become a living, enigmatic, ineffable… sigh.