The moon rode hard the skies on high
As if the devil drove her sails -
The clouds her streaming flags flashed by
And stars, which looked upon a far-off trail,
Were playing down amongst the sedge
Where a wand'ring lantern lit the way
Along that pale white arc of road.
Hard on the chalk the hooves
Plunged where they ne'er would during day,
Fell on the moonlit path which led to where
Some distant visage forged of brick arose;
A skein of smoke-like mortar mixed with stone
That seemed still trapped in ancient throes
Of death. And here he pulled in rein
And left his horse to graze the grass.
Himself, he stood as if in pain
Before the entrance to that house
And often did his grey lit gaze alight
Upon some ancient common place
Whereon a sharp-tinged longing passed
Across the hard planes of his face.
Knocking the door, he stood with care
His sword unsheathed and gleaming there,
But though his pounding shook the frame,
No answer to his ready hearing came.
The hinges shrieked then broke before his arm.
Within, the stairway led to distant rooms
And spiders made their many haunts
Amongst the silver of the chandelier -
Belittling, as they would with taunts,
The man who dared to face them here.
Still silent moved he, and a lance
Of light seemed carried in his hand
Where searching moonbeams caught the blade
He held yet rigid at his side.
Each room he passed so choked with dust
Seemed like a shutting pain inside,
And often he would hesitate before
Some fragment or reminding shard
Of a former faded glory. Before long
He'd move onwards, but with each step
A weight seemed loaded on his shoulders-
Furrows made once a comely face seem hard.
At last this pilgrim found his prize;
A man in rags cut from the drapes
Whose very frailness seemed to be
A form of provocation to the sight -
The man stood still, and yet his eyes
Spoke of some hidden inner battle fought.
"Why have you called" the grated question came,
"Why order me back to this place?"
No answer did the form reveal,
For in the folds the wrinkled head
Lay resting, smiling, calm
Above a corpse whose heart was dead.
Outside, the lonely owl voiced sorrow
Whilst the man within laid down his blade.
Heavily inspired by
the Listeners, a poem I
highly recommend you read. It is part of why I started writing in the first place. What I wrote is only a pale imitation - this is the real deal.
For tomorrow:
An animal in its natural habitat.
Author
Topic: Poetry Prompts (Read 48169 times)