After Strindberg I

Trudging once more through dark, polluted night,
Remembering that fleeting moment: "day",
I thought I caught, Or seemed to catch, a glimpse
Of amber-orange rust and peeling paint.
Paint blacker than the night through which my spirit
Continued wearily to make its way,
Or blacker than the spirit I dragged homeward
Yearning once more for long-awaited day.
The canker-bitten metal which I'd noticed
Pertainèd to a looming iron stove
Resembling a silhouetted man
Who solitary stood among the crowds.
There stands he, dressed in black, with a tall hat,
His penetrating eyes are shining bright
Like hot coals crying out for oxygen,
The fire at its death, losing its might.
What age is this my vision, old or young?
Oh, tired as I am, I cannot see
With normal clarity; instead, a veil
Diaphanously shelters you from me.
But peering through the smoke I just make out
Your face - a white smear, misty through the dark,
Of ash, the thumb-work of our short lives' artist,
The misanthrope, the sadist's lingering mark.