This night the poet turns in bed and
wrestles with his fears while shadows
dance like twisted marionettes pulled by
strings of insanity in his room
Alone and still his eyes squint in
poorly lit room and
sweat begins to bead on brow
he smells his fear
While shadows cast on window pane
and mock him with disdain for being
a man of letters yet cursed by his
fathers name
The raven perched outside his window
watches from a lonely tree hollowed out
by gnarled time of long ago it stares
with cracked beak and trembling
feathered breast
This poets shame controls his very
soul while ghostly images of hidden
faces and sacred places of evil families
haunt behind his fortress walls
Moving from the bed his
trembling hands are searching in
the dark for fear of being touched
by bony fingers reaching out to
pluck him from his bed
and still the rhythm of
his heart while howling
winds blow and batter
window panes
Guided by the stillness in this
room he plucks the feather quill
from it’s rest and begins to write
of boyhood dreams and weeps
awhile dripping on his page
his fathers shame and arrogance
whilst the courtyard jester
plays the fool
He claims his place within
the walls this night
as darkness brings all ghost’s
to life dancing in the dim light
watching as he pens with bloodied
quill a journal entry of family
haunted by the past while terror
lurks between his fortress walls
and screams echo from hell
This man of letters once accepted
and delighted now hangs his head
in shame like a wilted rose pressed
between the pages of lost forever
journals ragged and yellowed with
time and covered in witches dust
© Copyright 2010 by Vincent Moore. All rights reserved