When foreseeing takes the edge off you

hen foreseeing takes the edge off you,
when the room that smelled of roses and the sun is but
   a grave in the shape of a book,
when poetry is a piece of meat in the fork of a slaughterer
or a gourmet,
when you are accused, though you don't even know the
                                     passage of events,

when you're frightened of fears buried and resurrected,
when you tremble at the mirror, which at zero o'clock sharp
points at the corridors of future as long as the duration
                                                     of hell,
when your personality is but a deep shadow,
brown as fern and grainy as old film,
taken in the past that was future,

when you're alone in the wood that shoots dark trees:
       melancholies,
when you're lost, totally lost from yourself who asks for you
at every corner like a schizophrenic echo,

and when the knight then rides past, be happy:
because he's a knight, and because he rides past.

[next][previous][contents][Enchanting Beasts]