That Which Takes the Dark


4 a.m., and sleep seemed a thing impossible.

The mottled face of the ceiling was like that of the moon,
pale and barren, and offering nothing.

His eyes moved to the orange strip of street-lamp glow
cast across the bedroom wall by the window.

He watched the steam from the sewer drains
wash and dance
like ripples across a mud puddle,
before once again glancing at the hands
of the Big Ben clock at his bed-side.

Sleep wasn’t coming.

It had made its appearance brief, and seemingly
had moved on, leaving him to yearn.

Now, he did yearn,
but attempted to stop, for he knew
such an act would yield nothing.


bravery falls in the dead of night

When silent lay the caterwauls and wails
and deathly faint drop foot-falls ‘cross the floor
our hero dwells on all that quest entails
and once again he contemplates the door.

The lock secure, the wood and screws and nails,
could they withstand a battle-axe, or more?
Could they hold up when enemies assail?
The thoughts of dread he cannot help explore

The pondering which daily makes him strong,
the fear which powers blood through heart and veins,
when twilight falls upon with heavy clout
all courage sung about in epic song
is gone away as light from day-time wanes
and hero’s mask of courage is cast out.