• Tapestry

    The clock strikes twelve, an eerie sound.
    My heart then beats an unheard pound
    In the candle's ever diminishing light;
    And though this time feels naught in passing,
    Thoughts increase as though they're massing,
    Massing in their strength to reach my sight.

    The window's frost unto me chills
    And cools my heart until it stills
    The heat from within that nightly stalks its prey
    And though I fear these self abusing
    Needs are drawn toward this musing,
    Musing how this needs be what I say.

    The branches of the tree without
    My fortress windows mortar stout
    Does peck away at both the wall and at my mind;
    And though I need not look in knowing,
    I fear the ebb of courage showing,
    Showing what I know I'll surely find.

    Why do these noises move me so
    When nightly I can hear them low
    Beneath the wooden floors within this keep;
    And lo, I chastise myself losing
    Nerve that I might need when choosing,
    Choosing to unveil what lies so deep.

    I know the path that got me here
    Is fraught with peril, lined with fear
    And intellect is seldom called to bear.
    At times I hear within me calling
    Plaintive cries receding falling,
    Falling to the depths I know not where.

    The course I ride will stigmatize
    An angry man who lives with lies
    And ever pouring epigrams of thought;
    Yet would the lines that I have spoken
    Spare these doubts of dreams I've broken,
    Broken in the nightmares I have wrought.

    A turbid way of life I know,
    At best defeated whence I go.
    An inward journey leading only here.
    The noises start by justifying,
    Adding to and multiplying,
    Multiplying that which I will fear.

    The sun is coming up again.
    A ray of hope, my only friend,
    Portending to me yet another day;
    And with the light, my soul is soaring
    Passed the morbid life I'm pouring,
    Pouring out my hopes to find a way.

    Tonight when time approaches twelve,
    I'll leave my fears up on the shelves
    That rightly have no place within these walls;
    And reach into my mind though fasting,
    Empty, although everlasting,
    Lasting until death unto me calls.

    Then if ever noises find me
    Napping by the candle nightly,
    Whispered calls will only find a friend
    That softly answers warm and pleading
    Not to leave a man whose needing,
    Needing that which solaces the end.